


Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking

by staylucky



Category: SKAM (Norway), SKAM (TV)
Genre: Afterlife AU, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angel!Jonas, Angel!Noora, Angels, Angst, Bonding, Bottom Isak Valtersen, Death, Different Languages/Nationalities, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Mental Illness, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Murder, Reincarnation, Religion, Romance, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Spirit!Even, Spirit!Isak, Supernatural Elements, Top Even Bech Næsheim, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-23 14:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13191876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staylucky/pseuds/staylucky
Summary: The Afterlife is not what Isak Valtersen was expecting. He didn’t think he’d die at 18 years old in the first place. Purgatory’s ‘Apprentice Leader’, Eskild, is a wildcard, Isak's 'Angel Mentor' Noora doesn’t like Isak and he never got to even a kiss boy while he was on Earth. Thank Goodness, while he waits for reincarnation, for Jonas (another’s mentor) who takes Isak under his (literal) wing but most of all for fellow spirit and member of ‘Limbo Land’ Even Bech Naesheim, a beautiful boy with a past of his own. All isn’t what it seems, and Isak has a lot to discover.





	1. Ways and Means

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to The Afterlife AU!
> 
> I have used teachings from major religions in this fic including Christianity (Catholic), Islam, Hinduism, a little from Buddhism, Judaism and general spiritual beliefs. I have merged religious teaching with my own ideas and this is in no way meant to be an accurate representation of religious afterlife beliefs; religion has merely influenced me for creative purposes because it’s an afterlife AU. This is a fictional piece of work and I only intend to be inspired by religious teachings to create the AU, not to accurately portray religions, lecture readers about religion etc. I feel I have been respectful and I have done a lot of research before writing but if you have any problem you are free to message me on twitter @skamdalized. For example, I’ve used the concept of Islam’s Afterlife, that Jannah exists, and someone can go to a different level of Jannah depending on their good deeds but unlike the actual Islamic belief, people go to Jannah immediately after death in this fic (they don’t wait for a Day of Judgment). I’ve merely been influenced by religion and I’m not attempting to portray religion perfectly.
> 
> I have been so excited to write this ladies, gents and all others! I've been speaking about it for months but it took so much putting together, oh gosh. If you enjoy the story I would be so grateful if you left me some kudos, or even better, comments. We fic writers really do appreciate it, from lengthy essay reviews to - literally - a sentence of support :)
> 
> The fic has some ‘The Good Place’ vibes but is in no way a Good Place crossover or Good Place based fic.
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3
> 
> Warnings are in the tags and at the end of the chapter.
> 
> *
> 
> Some 'need to know's:
> 
> Moshkta = Sanskrit, meaning the samsaric cycle  
> Samsara = The Hindu belief of the reincarnation cycle  
> Jiva = a living being  
> Mukta = an eternal being, “innumerable freed souls (muktas) who were once bound to the mortal world but liberated by the grace of God or the merit of their actions”
> 
> Hinduism: Even, Isak and every other character is a Jiva (living being) which is taken from a Hindu belief. Jivas either ascend to the ancestral heaven (pitr lok) or descend into the hell. Hiding the indwelling spirit in its core, the subtle being stays in these worlds until the fruits of its good or bad actions are fully exhausted. Having squared off the karma and learned new lessons, it then returns to the earth to take another birth and repeat the process. This goes on until they achieve liberation and enter into the immortal world of Brahman where they remain liberated forever in a state of unity with the Supreme Self.
> 
> Unlike the Hindu belief, I am using Islam, Judaism and Christianity, not ancestral heaven (pitr lok) but the idea is that all jivas stay in Limbo Land to learn more from their time on earth ready for the next stage of afterlife.
> 
> Unlike Western ideals of reincarnation which makes the idea of coming into body after body seems desirable/romantic Hinduism, Buddhism and other southern Asian religions portray the samsaric process as unhappy.
> 
> Jewish Beliefs: Jewish faith teaches that when one dies they go through a ‘period of review’ where their earthly actions are scrutinized before they move on to the World to Come. Isak and Even are reviewing their actions on earth, being "re schooled" and gaining wisdom. As this Jewish belief ties in with Christianity, this is a mix of both faiths. Technically in Christianity you can only be in Limbo if you an innocent child or unbaptised but this won't be mentioned in the fic.
> 
> Islam: Most residents call it Limbo Land but officially they are in Jannah which is what Muslims believe is Heaven. Isak and Even are in a higher Jannah for the good deeds they did on Earth. There has not been a Day of Judgment yet, which differs from the Islamic belief that the Day of Judgment will happen and that's when everyone enters Jannah/Jahannam.
> 
> Purgatory, or Limbo, is a typically Christian Catholic belief. In the Catholic Church, all those who die in God's grace and friendship, but still imperfectly purified, are indeed assured of their eternal salvation; but after death they undergo purification, so as to achieve the holiness necessary to enter the joy of heaven or the final purification of the elect, which is entirely different from the punishment of the damned.

Shadows come to life in front of him, Isak blinking uneasily before realising it’s his hands he’s seeing, the black outline of his limbs unclear in the murky water. As his senses awaken and he’s aware of his own body he starts to feel again, the water so cold it burns, Isak desperately trying to swim away until he’s shocked to find he’s immersed in it, seemingly unable to swim to the top and find relief. He twists slowly to his left, thrashing now in this vast, empty ocean when he realises he may be unable to move easily but he’s not struggling to breathe. 

_ What on earth is happening? _

He tries to spin, to swim, but his movements are clunky and uneasy, no element of grace whatsoever. His clothes are heavy; remembering clothes weigh you down in water he argues with the tight blazer he’s wearing until it’s off, doomed to fall to the bottom of this strange sea. He kicks away at nothing as if he must stay afloat but again, he can’t make it upwards.

He may be able to hold his breath underwater, but something doesn’t feel right.

As quickly as it comes, like a dizzy awakening from a restless sleep, it fades and everything is zapped back to black.

_ Hello? _

*

It’s the white noise of the TV, crackling through, the sort of sound that hammers through your head when everything’s been silent for too long and Isak wakes up hot and sweaty, but not in bed.

He’s sat gasping for air, on a plump, mustard-coloured sofa. He looks around, breathless, at the multi-coloured walls with a grand mirror on the opposite wall, the beautiful golden frame renaissance in its aesthetics and Isak looks tiny inside of it. He’s in a blazer; a navy, tight fitted blazer and a crisp white shirt, skin-tight black jeans.

_ Why am I wearing a blazer of all things? _

The empty sea, his ability to breathe comfortably, the way the same shirt clung to his skin and he discarded the blazer in panic ping back to mind as he remembers falling, yet not, floating in the unknown lake.

A door Isak hadn’t noticed previously opens, wooden and heavy and a tall, slim man with elegant features greets him with sparkling eyes.

“In here,” he encourages, a lilt in his voice. Isak rises to his feet, intrigued, as he follows the man into what must be his office. It’s brightly coloured again, magenta walls and turquoise green chairs, expensive looking ornaments littered amongst the windowsills. Isak blushes as he clocks the explicit painting of a man’s face contorted in pleasure as he rocks back on his heels, cock in hand, globs of white paint over his torso.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the elegant man asks.

Isak swallows nervously.

“Isak Valtersen,” the man says, with an apologetic smile, “you’re dead.”

Isak frowns, aware of how his eyebrows feel, of the soft and tiny crinkles in his nose as he does so, feeling hyper-aware of every single movement he makes.

“Yes,” the man murmurs, in sympathy, “I know. ‘Heaven’ isn’t exactly what Mama told you it is, right?” he asks, finger quotes included.

Isak grips his nails into the plush cushion of the big chair he’s been invited to sit in. This can’t be it. Heaven can’t be the office of a camp, lip-gloss wearing man with an admiration of masturbating, bearded men. 

“Any questions?” the man asks, eyes wide.

“I… I don’t know,” Isak whispers, the pressure of needing to answer right now when he feels both disconnected and so in tune with himself and everything around him overwhelming.

“Ok,” the man says warmly, “you want the low down?”

“Yeah,” Isak half-laughs. This feels like a dream, an elaborate prank the boys have set up but he instinctively knows it isn’t.

“Pretty much everyone is right, in a way,” the man shrugs, leaning back into his chair. This is clearly someone who has told the story he’s about to tell many times, but instead of getting bored of it, he adds a new twist to it each time, revelling in his role.

“Mama was sort of right,” he agrees, in a tone that suggests he wants Isak to feel at ease, “this is Purgatory. Well. Almost. It could be  _ Jannah _ , of sorts. You did particularly well on earth, for your age. You’re in a higher level, if you like, than others. Yet, you’re not without sin… you’ll learn here. Before you move on.”

“Move on?” Isak asks, stilling, seeing imaginary flames of hell in his imagination.

“Not like that, baby,” the man tuts, “you’re going through a… period of review, if you wish.  Welcome to the Samsara.”

“I’m lost,” Isak tries to say but his voice is a broken whisper.

“Samsaric cycle? Aren’t you Norwegian? Don’t you learn about different religions in liberal Norway, huh?”

“Aren’t you Norwegian?” Isak retorts, seeing as they’re both speaking his mother tongue and man’s accent mirrors his own.

“This is the Afterlife,” the man laughs, “I could be speaking Tigrinya but it will translate automatically and you’ll only hear Norwegian.”

Isak’s impressed expression must satisfy him because he moves swiftly on. 

“Reincarnation,” he continues, like it’s obvious, “but not your Western hipster “ _ I swear I was on the Titanic slash this is my lover who I was wed to in 1578 _ ” New Age hippie bullshit. The samsaric process is not all that pleasant.  _ Moshkta _ .”

“Oh,” Isak musters, a little scared and very confused.

“It’s ok,” the man says and despite his fears Isak settles, “things will start to make sense. You get a guide to help you adjust.”

Isak nods, feeling perked up at the idea of not being alone.

“My name’s Eskild, by the way,” Eskild says, flirtatiously, “You may think of me as… The Apprentice of Heaven.”

“Right,” Isak says noncommittally.

“Well, this isn’t Heaven,” Eskild rolls his eyes, “no one can decide on a name for the afterlife. They all like to argue. Generally, a lot of residents have settled on  _ Limbo Land _ , I think they enjoy the alliteration.”

Isak’s ribs feel tight like the blazer has a grip, which is impossible. Eskild softens, reaching over and taking his hand. Isak’s surprised by how warm it is.

“Noora?” Eskild asks, his eyes focused on Isak’s, Isak frowning at being addressed by a woman’s name until a shocking light forces him to shut his eyes, opening them again to see a tall, feline-like woman with sharply cut blonde hair wearing a pretty white blouse and white jeans, standing at the edge of Eskild’s pristine desk.

“Eskild,” she greets in an oddly formal way. Isak moves to stand, to offer his hand and say hello but she shoots him down with a swift, cold look.

“This is Isak Valtersen,” Eskild explains, jaw tense as the atmosphere tightens, “the latest  _ jiva _ to arrive.”

“I’ve read his file,” Noora says, smacking her perfectly painted red lips together, “quite a sad story, really.”   
  
“I am here,” Isak points out, slightly annoyed, “and none of this is making sense to me.”

Noora flatten hers hair with a sigh, shrugging at Eskild.

“I guess you want me to do tour as usual? Did you tell him the basics?” 

“Yes!” Eskild retorts, “he knows where he is, don’t you, Isak? He knows he’s dead. He’s - ”

Isak doesn’t expect the roaring, desperate sobs that leave his body, forcing him to bend over in discomfort, loud and ugly as he cries for a solid few minutes before it subsides and leaves him sniffling and quiet, awkwardly fidgeting in his chair.

“That’s normal,” Noora mutters, “dying is emotional.”

“I don’t want to be dead,” Isak says shakily, voice a little broken, “I’m 17.”

“18, technically,” Eskild corrects, looking at Isak, anxiety etched across his features.

  
*  


_ Balloons, tens of them, hundreds, yellow and bright green and soft pastels. Kris had bought him the blazer, Isak trying it on, low key impressed because he lives in hoodies, always.  _

_ “You won’t pull hiding everything you got, Issy,” Kris had laughed, standing behind him as Isak admired himself in the full length mirror, pulling it down so that it hugged Isak’s waist, his shoulders nicely. _

_ “You like it?” Kris asked, stood behind Isak, large hands loose at the nip of Isak’s waist. Isak had practically heard his brain whurr and fizz, excited by the contact from the boy he’s secretly loved for so long. _

_ “Yeah, thank you,” he smiled.  _

_ “You’re welcome,” his best friend said, squeezing Isak’s waist a little, making Isak catch his breath, “happy birthday, Isak.”  
_

_ * _

“I’m 18?” Isak asks, “what’s the date?”

“22nd June,” Noora informs him, weighing him up with her eyes.

“I think,” she breaks off, looking to Eskild and sharing a private thought with him, “I think I should take you with me now Isak. We can discuss things further.”

She walks towards him, pauses, before moving. Isak realises he needs to follow and nods his goodbyes to Eskild who is looking at him curiously and he follows Noora into the waiting room he was once in before they make their way down some large stone steps. Big doors open to a perfectly normal street, quaint and pretty with cobbled roads and large buildings, a variety of colours with beautiful stained glass windows and pretty wooden balconies carved from rosewood aplenty. 

“Not what you were expecting?” Noora asks, like she’s reading his mind. Isak shivers, unnerved.

“I dunno,” he sulks, “never thought I’d be dead so soon.”

Isak’s mind is buzzing with possibilities as he looks around and sees people chatting, relaxing, just like a happy Friday afternoon in Akerselva. Noora leads him through winding paths until they stop at a pastel blue door of a small town house. 

“We’ve allocated you this house,” she informs him, pushing on through and leading Isak in. It’s cosy, fairly small with a comfy looking sofa and a large dining table as he walks through, some freshly picked flowers in the windowsill in the kitchen.

“We’ve taken your memories and altered them slightly,” Noora says, “things that made you happy on earth will still make you happy here.”

Isak runs his hand over the wooden table in his new dining room.

 

*  


_ “DOWN IT!” _

_ Isak winced as the vodka hit the back of his throat and he forced it down with a grimace, his body fighting back as he gagged but forced himself to swallow. He threw the empty plastic shot cup at the heavy, wooden table that filled most of the tiny dining room of the flat he shared with his best friend. _

_ Kris was laughing uncontrollably. _

_ “You can’t do shots,” he had said, eyes shut as his grin overtook his handsome face, “you’re too little.” _

_ “Little?!” Isak asked, furious, “take it back, Baarsden.” _

_ “No,” Kris smirked, filling up his now empty shot glass with yet more vodka, “just accept it Isak, you can’t do it.” _

_ Isak watched as Kris knocked it back with ease, barely bothered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and making Isak weak when he winked at him. _

_ “I’ll get better,” Isak insisted, cocky. He loved these nights with Kris and almost wished they were staying in, making bolognese and watching Narcos but as it was his 18th birthday Kris insisted they dressed up and went out. They’d hit Elsker and Kris would be his wingman, not that he’s ever been any good at it. _

_ “Let me date someone,” Isak had laughed months ago after Kris had rubbished the last three guys Isak had tried to go out with, “you’re like an annoying older brother.” _

_ “Yes,” Kris eye rolled, “it’s my job to keep your virtue intact.” _

_ Isak had laughed at that but blushed to his tiptoes, too, that Kris might in any way think of him like that. _

_ “I’ll have to keep my eye on you tonight,” Kris said, taking yet another shot as Isak licked the remnants of vodka from his teeth, still unimpressed with the taste. The vodka was making him brave and he had to bite back the flirty “you can watch me if you want” that clung to his tongue, wanting to escape. _

_ “To being 18,” Isak  _ _ said, grabbing one of the pre-made shots as Kris tutted. _

_ “To being 18, Isak.”  
_

*  


Noora leaves with the suggestion he spends some time alone but Isak is at a loss. The tiny house is pleasant; he loves the flowers, the large frosted window in his bathroom, the expansive bed in his bedroom but it’s a stranger’s home, not his. He automatically reaches for his back pocket but there’s no phone.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do without a phone? Read?” he asks the universe, incredulous. He wanders around the house, deciding to explore upstairs. The large bedroom is comfortable with an open fire place and a large wardrobe that, when Isak opens it, is full. He’s excited by that, fingering brand new Adidas hoodies, pink and navy and dark green but the novelty wears off quickly. Isak tests the bed, falling back onto it, starfish style. It is delightfully comfortable. He wishes he could snooze, always a lazy, sleepy kitten-like boy back on earth but he’s thrumming with excitement and anxiety at being, well,  _ dead _ , and closing his eyes last for approximately ten seconds.

“Fine,” he mutters to himself, springing back up. He goes to check for his keys when he realises he doesn’t have them. 

Surely there’s no burglaries in Heaven.

It’s beautiful, wherever this place is. It reminds Isak of Oslo so perhaps he’s just seeing what he wants to see. If he can hear his own language translated through the mouths of everyone he’s speaking to then perhaps it’s no surprise that he’s reminded of the tranquility of Bjørvika and hustle and bustle of Grünerløkka.

He miserably wanders into a small cafe which lists more coffees than Isak’s ever tasted on its board.

“What can I get you? Isak, right? I heard we had a newbie in town!” the bright blonde girl smiles, grabbing a mug for him.

“Oh,” he says, self conscious, “I’ll have… uh… just a regular coffee. Lots of milk. Please.”

She begins the process of making his drink, grabbing a cookie and a small plate and pushing it to him.

“For your sweet tooth,” she winks. Isak smiles, for the first time since getting here, and waits patiently for the delicious smelling drink to be ready. He thanks her and takes a seat near the window so he can watch people pass by.

_ They’re all dead. They look so happy. How are they so happy? _

He can’t finish his cookie even though it’s doughy and heavenly, the coffee making him shake even more than he has been doing. He wasn’t supposed to be here, not yet. He should be at home at the flat with Kris, Kris making them breakfast because hangovers barely touch him but Isak’s always a mess. He should be there, watching from the sofa as Kris whistles and sings as he stirs the eggs for  _ Pannekaken _ , Isak feeling soft as he waits patiently for his meal.

He snaps back to the current moment as the blonde girl from earlier cleans away his plate and mug.

“Not hungry?” she asks with pity.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he nods, curling inwards. She leaves without a fuss and continues with her job. Isak wonders why she even has a job. Surely you don’t need a job when you’re dead? Capitalism has truly gone too far if that’s the case.

“I totally agree,” a stranger mutters, “ugh, my head,” he groans.

Isak startles because he didn’t notice the stranger sit next to him and he realises immediately he’s not like Isak, his visible aura and white dress-up indicating his supernatural status.

“An angel?” he means to say, but it comes out as a query. The boy’s silky white glow fizzles around him, the same as Noora, but he isn’t blonde. He sports thick dark curls and he’s holding his head in his hands.

“Hasn’t Noora told you off for that yet?” he asks, peeping a look at Isak, “we’re not angels, that’s just your Christian soul speaking. We’re human forms of the Highest Order. All knowing guides,” he grins, as if it’s a joke.

“That doesn’t trip off the tongue as easily,” Isak jokes back, feeling a sense of comfort.

“You’d think  _ angels  _ wouldn’t get hangovers,” the boy groans, back into his hands before sighing and lifting up, “how’s yours?”

“Mine?” Isak asks, stunned, before the boy tuts to himself, clicking his fingers.

“Yeah, course,” he mumbles, “you just died, that trauma will replace all the vodka shots you attempted to do last night.”

Isak frowns, nodding anyway, the idea of death still so alien. He is sensitive and alert to more than usual, the way his eyelashes feel as he blinks, the tiniest specks of dust on the windowsill glaringly obvious to him despite Kris’s teasing about his lack of competency in cleaning when he was alive.

“Are you ok?” the angel asks, worry obvious in his eyes and he places a warm hand over Isak’s. Isak feels a rush of pleasure at that, it clear the angel’s abilities can soothe immediately as Isak feels a heady sensation, like a warm blanket being pulled across him.

“Woah. I’ve just seen what happened,” the angel says, sad, “I’m sorry, Isak.”

Isak shakes his head, lost.

“Didn’t Eskild tell you how you died?” 

The angel is annoyed by this, Isak can tell in the way his voice hardens and his eyebrows get closer together.

“No,” Isak admits.

  
*

_ Elsker was packed and bright, glamour and glitz everywhere with displays of artwork across the club walls and a mix of dance, hip hop and more that made Isak feel euphoric but the beer itself probably helped. _

_ “Let’s dance!” Kris yelled, taking Isak by the hand and through the swarms of people, Isak dragging Eva with them. He was drunk, no doubt about that, and being spun by Eva until Kris grabbed him. _

_ “Stand still!” he yelled over Notorious B.I.G, “close your eyes!” _

_ Isak giggled but obeyed, waiting, enjoying the way Kris’s large hands gripped his face and he felt something slimy being slicked across his cheekbone. _

_ “What are you doin’?” Isak slurred, eyes closed, letting Kris turn his face with his finger and thumb. _

_ “You’ve earnt some stripes, Isak,” Kris shouts into his right ear, placing a quick kiss to his head, “and now you glow in the dark, Pretty Boy.”  
_

*

The angel’s chosen name is Jonas, Isak learns, as he takes Isak out of the cafe after hearing about Isak’s ignorance, and Isak likes him. He’s Chilean, died young many moons ago and has ascended each level of Jannah until he was given  _ mukta _ status, an  _ innumerable freed soul _ .

“It was thousand of years ago,” Jonas says, “I was reincarnated a lot but I was always hoping to achieve  _ mukta _ .”

“Why?” Isak asks, following Jonas’s steps as they stroll through the cobbled roads, little town squares and the picturesque nature. They make their way up a steep hill, Isak embarrassingly out of breath as they climb it but once they have he’s glad they did. He looks out to a pretty square with a lakeshore, a Napoleonic arch framing the square as they look out to sea.

“To see the future,” Jonas smiles, “to understand human nature, or try to.”

“You’ve been doing this for thousands of years and you still don’t understand humans?” Isak teases.

“No,” Jonas admits, taking a seat on the stair that lead down from the arch, Isak copying. He looks over the lakeshore, mind still stopping and starting, like a broken TV that picks up signal and drops it just as fast. He can’t tune in or settle.

“When you meet someone who had the world to live for yet killed themselves,” Jonas says, solemn, “when a child enters and you know there’s parents back there, broken… when you meet a young guy who you’d probably be friends with back on earth, but he ended up here, too soon…”

Isak meets his eyes, acknowledges Jonas means him, and they share a smile.

“And, well, I’ve done work experience in the Dark Place,” he says conspiratorially, “having to work alongside the worst of the worst. I’ll never understand human beings.”

Isak can sympathise with that. He never understood human beings either. He was always out of sync with others, always second guessing what they meant. His mouth feels dry and despite ignoring his cookie earlier his stomach rumbles with want.

“How do you feel?” Jonas asks, and Isak realises he’s summoned fresh, cold lemonade, two glasses next to him which certainly weren’t there before. Isak picks his up and sips, home made and sour with enough sugar to make it tasty.

“That’s amazing,” he groans, Jonas nodding, “here,” he offers, a kebab appearing in Isak’s lap, chicken with onions, peppers, large dollops of mayo in soft, warm bread. Isak stomach gurgles with happiness at just the smell.

“Thanks!” he says happily, winding lettuce and onion around the fork and sticking it into some meat, suddenly starved.

“I feel weird,” Isak says, trying to make sure he’s swallowed his food before answering, “it doesn’t feel real.”

“Do you remember anything?” Jonas asks, concerned.

“I remember being in a lake?” Isak asks, delicately helping himself to more food, “I can’t remember anything about death.”

Jonas sips his own drink, chasing the straw with his tongue and looking out to water. Isak feels like he wants to say something but is holding back and Jonas grimaces.

“What?” 

“Ok” Jonas says out loud, “you’re right. I am keeping something from you. When a  _ jiva _ arrives and they died in a traumatic situation we’re supposed to let them sit it out, realise it, learn but a lot of you don’t remember and it’s fucked up. Eskild has the authority to tell you straight away especially if you had a horrible death. I wish I could just take the memory away so you don’t have to relive it.”

Isak’s blood runs cold. He can’t remember how he died and the way Jonas dresses it up he doesn’t want to, wants to cloak himself in ignorance.

“Can’t you just tell me?” Isak asks, already feeling a connection with Jonas, “it’s better if I know it now.”

“I’m sorry, Isak,” Jonas says, genuine, “it’s not my place. This may be Heaven to you where you just get what you want but we have processes to follow.”

Isak nods, frustrated but trying to understand for Jonas’s sake. They’re silent, comfortable in it, as Isak continues to eat before he thinks back to Jonas’s words.

“Can you - uh - read my thoughts?” 

It’s an uneasy realisation.

Jonas nods.

“All Higher Order beings can read minds and some residents can too, if they’ve been in  _ Jannah  _ for a long time. The longer you’re here waiting for reincarnation the stronger your ‘supernatural’ powers get.”

Predictably, all Isak wants to do is think of the most humiliating things possible. He wants to consider how Jonas’s eyes are kind but his hands look strong, comforting; he thinks of Kris - Kris’s hands and arms and lips and the times he’d let Isak on for a piggyback, jokingly, but it didn’t feel funny to Isak, not as he snaked his arms around Kris’s neck and tightened his legs around Kris’s waist - of the locker room showers, of all the porn he’d been watching before  -

“Don’t worry, man, that’s normal, happens all the time,” Jonas shrugs, but he’s smirking and Isak blushes hot pink.

“God,” Isak mutters, Jonas laughing, “let’s not get God involved, Isak.”

“Does God exist?” Isak asks, temporarily distracted from the horror of everyone in this goddamn place being able to read all his nasty thoughts.

“Uh… well… ah, you don’t even know the basics. Leave the heavy stuff for now,” Jonas insists, “oh, shit, one of my  _ jivas _ is asking for me,” he mumbles, the white light around him flickering, “I’ll see you around, Isak.”

He’s gone in a flash. 

_ I can summon my angel? Awesome. _

“Noora?” he asks, Noora appearing just as he’s finishing saying her name. She looks down at the kebab and frowns.

“Kebabs aren’t healthy,” she reprimands, scoffing, “you need vegetables, Isak.”

“Why? I’m dead. I may as well get fat.”

Noora raises an eyebrow, twitchy annoyance obvious, a slender arm crossed over the other. Isak is getting full anyway, discarding it to one side as he stands up, head spinning as he does.

“Can you tell me how I died?” he asks, even though Noora’s every vibe is one of distaste, clearly not wanting to be with Isak at all. 

“No,” she sighs, “you have to learn, you have to evolve, that’s the only way you can move on from limbo.”

Isak is ready to argue and clearly Noora knows this because she narrows her blue eyes, Isak feeling a sharp jolt of pain in his side.

“Ow!” he accuses, irritated, “why did you do that?”

“Don’t argue with a celestial being, Isak. You need to calm down and spend some time reflecting on your time on earth.”

Isak’s about to snap back when Noora disappears, Isak blinking comically as his eyes tingle painfully from the bright light she leaves behind her. He’s angry, faintly sick, about to stomp back to his strange home when he turns around and crashes into an immovable, tall man.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, assuming it’s yet another irritating angel, but as he actually takes the man in he’s not in whites but a soft coloured check shirt, a faded denim jacket.

“It’s ok,” the guy assures him, eyes fixated on Isak’s. Isak is rooted to the spot for a long second, eyes raking over the guy, his baggy beige jeans over long legs as he smiles at Isak.

“Isak,” he says knowingly, “good to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Isak murmurs, looking up ever so slightly to meet his eyes, the stranger’s aura visible in certain lights when the sun reflects on it, a soft opal flickering around him.

“Even,” he introduces himself, hands in his pockets with ease, “you met my guide, Jonas.”

Isak feels a jolt of jealousy. Eskild, or whoever, messed up giving him uptight Noora as his guide to all things afterlife when he’d match perfectly with Jonas’s chilled nature. Isak couldn’t be sure of the time but it felt like afternoon, the sun still high in the sky, clouds dotted about casually. He usually hated being outside after a heavy session but with his memories mixed up, like a broken CD that keeps skipping songs and scratching, strangled and frustrating, nothing was as it was before. 

“You’re living up on Rose Hill?” Even inquires but Isak can’t answer, shrugging helplessly.

“I have no idea what it’s called,” he admits.

“Yeah, I’m sure you are,” Even says confidently, “you need to explore it. Walk upwards and there’s a rose garden. It’s beautiful.”

“Ok,” Isak agrees bashfully, the surety in Even’s voice convincing him it’s worth a visit. Even nods and turns to leave, Isak watching briefly before deciding to figure his way back. Rose Hill. At least his new home has a pretty name but Isak’s never been great at being alone and living alone, here? It’s not something he’s excited about, despite the gorgeous paths and gardens and welcoming cafes. It isn’t Oslo, and these people aren’t his friends.   


*  
  
_ Kris would clear this plates after breakfast and drink his fresh Dominican coffee. Isak had tried to like it, wanting to like it, but coffee isn’t for him, the bitter taste too harsh on his tongue. He’d curl into the side of the sofa and waste time on his phone, scrawling through facebook and rolling his eyes until he’d end up on Grindr for a browse. _

_ He’d never even kissed a guy, for goodness sake. He was 17 and slowly getting desperate. _

_ Kris threw himself onto the other side of their battered sofa and stretched, grabbing the remote and switching over to snooker, a game Isak didn’t care for. He liked it when they watched football together but he never understood Kris’s enjoyment of this game. _

_ “Come on then, Issy,” Kris sighed dramatically, gesturing for Isak to come over. Isak wished he had a morsel of self control but he’d move like an eager pup whenever Kris offered comfort, edging in-between spread legs so he could nestle into Kris’s chest, both of them quiet as the game began. It was the World Championship and Kris was obsessed with it. _

_ “We should go to the Crucible,” he suggested, Isak’s stomach flipping when Kris rubbed his thumb gently on the side of Isak’s head, against blonde curls, “take a trip to Sheffield, huh? Next year, for the game.” _

_ “I don’t like snooker,” Isak said petulantly, even though he knew he’d go if Kris was serious. He’d follow Kris anywhere. _

_ “You could go to the museums while I watch the game,” Kris said, hand still stroking through Isak’s hair, “it’d be fun.” _

_ “Maybe,” Isak replied, starting to shut his eyes. He wouldn’t be surprised if he started purring shortly. _

_ His phone buzzed, interrupting his impending snooze, a message from  _ _ Håkon _ _ flashing up on his phone. _

_ “Ooh,” Kris sing-songed, eyes drawn away from the opening credits, but he soon made a face, “Isak, what’s the hell? You can do way better than that.” _

_ “Huh,” Isak scoffed, opening it, still sleepy and comfy lying on Kris, “it doesn’t matter, Kris. Besides, don’t be so rude. He might be a really cool guy.” _

_ “Come on, Issy,” Kris tutted, still making shapes in Isak’s hair, “you know you’re hot as fuck. You need to go for gold.” _

_ “I’m hot?” Isak teased, even though he can’t deny the way Kris’s words warm him up, smacking Kris’s arm lightly, “careful, Kris! You’ll break Aud’s heart.” _

_ Kris laughed in disbelief and Isak ached but he knew it was the appropriate response. Kris was straight, his auburn-haired, beautiful girlfriend the love of his life. Isak knew this but it still felt like a dagger in his ribs every time she was there, hands wound around Kris’s neck, thick thighs wrapped around his hips when they made out in the kitchen. _

_ “Issy,” Kris muttered with kindness, “you know how special you are to me.” _

_ His hand entwined in Isak’s hair and Isak thrumming with happiness on his broad body, Isak had to bite back a soft, thankful moan. _

__ “I know.”  
  
*  
  
It’s a tough sleep. He wakes in fits and starts, realistic dreams of drowning forcing him up and confusing ideas about Kris, his Mama. Isak's woken twice and found himself stood in a different part of the room. The second time he’s on his feet, forcefully smashing his finger against against the light switch.

_ On, off. On, off. On, off. _

As he comes to properly his eyes burn and he winces like a sensitive, vampirific creature as the light blinds him. Everything’s so intense as he adjusts to death, nothing like he ever imagined. Isak used to believe that was it, that everything would fade to black and his bones would burn or rot, his logical, scientific brain unable to compute Gates of Heaven or Hellfire. His Mama believed and he accepted that whilst quietly rubbishing it in his mind. 

_ Well you were right Mama, kind of _ .

He can smell breakfasts being made despite the little cafes he’s stumbled across being nowhere near his house. It’s as if someone were downstairs in his little kitchen squeezing the juice from the apples and baking fresh bread in his oven. He can hear birds chirping and the gentle movement of the water,  _ Limbo _ being overrun with open water, little streams of rivers and larger lakes. 

He needs to do something. He can shower. He knows how to do that, at least.

Isak pushes himself up and out of bed into his bathroom, turning the shower on with great force until it’s boiling hot. He wriggles out of his night shirt and boxers and jumps in, appreciating the scalding heat on his face, reddening his skin as he looks for soap and finds it. This is familiar, making him feel grounded and not like he’s spinning out and spiralling into nothing. 

Kris would laugh at how long he took, complain about the blonde curls he’d find in there afterwards. Once Kris told him he loved the lemon scent of Isak’s shower gel which Isak had only bought because the drugstore didn’t have his usual minty favourite. Isak never changed it after that.

His daydream is ripped to pieces when the searing pain in his stomach forces Isak to his knees, clutching at his bare skin in horror.

“Fuck,” he mutters, the pain inside him unforgiving, to the point he has tears in his eyes, groaning helplessly before sobs wreck him, the pain only growing, twisting in his abdomen. 

“Isak?”

He opens his eyes to see Noora standing, perplexed, looking over him. If it didn’t feel like he was being eaten alive from the inside he’d be humiliated, lying there like a child in the bath, naked, crouched uncomfortably. He can’t stop the sobs but there’s fear, too, snaking its way around him as he tries to hold himself together, knees up to his belly.

He isn’t aware of Noora leaning in, his eyes shut tight as he rides out the pain until it’s disappearing, slowly, fading, the monster inside him being crushed and replaced by a warm, strong hand placed confidently on Isak’s stomach.

“It’s gone,” she says, quiet and more gentle than usual. Isak’s body remains shaky, Isak groaning in the aftermath of whatever that was. He keeps himself curled, more for modesty than anything else as his tears subside and he’s just a naked, wet boy cringing in front of a Higher Order being.

He sniffs, daring a glance at her.

“It doesn’t hurt now, thanks,” he mumbles, Noora removing her hand. She checks over him with those icy eyes, Isak flushing beetroot.

“Do you mind?” he huffs, “a little privacy, here.”

She smirks, pretty, but Isak’s never been affected by girls. A girl has never made him feel woozy and faint, never made him laugh until he’s snorted, never made him come; panting, breathless and desperate, hand wrapped around his dick as he spent yet another night jerking off listening to Kris fuck Aud.

“You’re welcome,” she snaps, back to the Noora he’s used to, prickly.

“I am grateful,” he snaps back, “but I don’t want an audience.”

“You need to stop fighting this pain. Just let it go. You’ll find out soon enough,” she ponders. Isak moves, less than elegant, careful to keep his legs together and make sure he isn’t displaying everything, knees to his chest as he manages to sit up a little straighter.

“What do you mean?”

_ Why the fuck does everyone have to be so cryptic around here _ ?

“Your death,” Noora says, “you’ll learn how you died.”  


*  
  


_ “Hey!” _

_ It was the affronted cry of a strange man Isak didn’t know. He didn’t know his name but he knew the man smelt of  beer, he knew he had confident hands that brought Isak in by the hips and kept him close. Isak chucked his arms over his shoulders, hands at the back of the stranger’s head as he tried to kiss Isak, Isak swaying, drunk, lips just out of reach. _

_ It wasn’t until Kris had grabbed him and pushed him away that he got a good look at the stranger’s face. He was much older and he didn’t look anything like Kris, his features scrunching and angry as he complained about Kris “stealing” Isak, about Isak being a “tease”. Kris guided Isak back, steering him away from their friends and towards the entrance of the club. _

_ “Issy,” Kris yelled into his ear, pressed up close, “you don’t wanna kiss that old weirdo.” _

_ Isak shrugged. _

_ “I’m 18,” he yelled back, “I want to kiss. And do more. And - I want - ” _

_ Kris kissed his neck, holding him tightly, arms around his narrow body as people pushed by them, maybe assuming they’re a couple, drunk and in love.  _

_ Isak’s drunk and in love. _

_ “No! I want a proper kiss!” Isak complained, tipsy but aware of Kris’s grins against his cheek. It’s not fair, not fair how Kris does this. He puts down Isak’s crushes, he scoffs at his Grinder matches, he tells Isak he’s reading too much into things if Isak wonders out loud about the cute, other gay guy in his Art class who made eyes at him, he tells Isak he needs to wait and find The Right One. _

_ Isak’s found him but he’s straight so he’s given up on finding The Right One, still. He needs to find someone. _

_ “Don’t be so eager,” Kris said, drunk, mouth running as always, “you’re a kid. It will happen. No rush. Let’s dance.” _

_ Isak nodded, agreeing. He always agreed. He always had and always would.  
_

*

  
Isak decides to go to Rose Hill like the boy he met yesterday suggested. It can’t hurt to go exploring, especially somewhere that sounds so pretty, forcing him to work hard to keep upright, the hill narrowing as he ascends, eventually reaching a small junction with what Isak is sure is a pub on the left.

_ The Library _ .

It’s otherworldly atmosphere just from the outdoors makes sense, considering this is the afterlife, Isak thinks. The sign of  _ The Library  _ is small, curled writing with predictably a pile of books etched onto the wood, pretty glazed tiles and large windows making it particularly inviting. Isak slows down to look inside and sees a burning log fire towards the back, stacks of pint glasses. He can already smell the spilt beer and burning wood. As he lurks on the outside he spies Even, the boy from yesterday, sat lounging on a plush-looking two seat sofa. His hand is moving fast as his pencil dances across the small notepad resting on his thigh.

Isak’s aching to taste something alcoholic, always the sort of boy to squeak “yes!” if beers are ever suggested and with that in mind he enters  _ The Library _ . It feels like a soft spring mid-morning outside but once he’s in it may as well be a bitter winter’s day in Oslo. Even looks up, raising his head in acknowledgment as he rises to join Isak at the bar, Isak fidgeting with his sleeves.

“ _ Halla _ ,” Even smiles, “where are you going?”

“I thought I’d try and find these roses,” Isak reminds him, “but I saw this, and you, and a beer right now sounds so good.”

“It’s only just midday,” Even teases, teeth on show. Isak likes people who smile with their whole mouths, because he doesn’t.

“Exactly,” Isak argues, “an acceptable time to drink.”

Perhaps it’s odd that they’re the only two patrons but at least it means they’re served immediately, Isak opting for Carlsberg and Even for Pilsner.

“This is your bad influence,” Even smirks, “I was going to get a coffee.”

Isak rolls his eyes and takes the first blissful sip of his drink, cold and fizzy.

Even’s notepad is on the table in front of them, sketches all over the white paper, of trees and flowers and people. He’s a talented illustrator if the images Isak can currently see are anything to go by.

“They’re good,” he murmurs, Even licking the suds of beer away from his lips, nodding in gratefulness.

“Need a useful hobby,” Even shrugs, “jerking off only fills up so much of my time, now I’m dead for eternity.”

Isak cough-splutters out some beer, laughing naughtily.

“Yeah, sure,” he agrees, “I can’t draw for shit though so I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“You won’t be dead for eternity, Even,” a new voice pipes up, Isak almost dropping his pint in surprise. Even’s close, Isak has to make a conscious effort to keep his thigh from touching Even’s and he can see Even’s jaw tighten, fingers tapping, annoyed, on the notepad.

“Why?” Isak’s puzzled, but also glad to see Jonas who looks much perkier than yesterday.

“You’ll be reincarnated, of course.”

Isak’s fearful as his stomach lurches again, not wanting to go through the agony of this morning for a second time but he remembers Eskild’s words -  _ the samsara _ \- the idea of shedding his own life to become a new person fills him with dread.

“Don’t worry,” Jonas soothes, Isak’s anxiety radiating off him and Jonas’s unfortunate telepathic powers working, “you’ll forget about Isak, about your memories. Deja vu, right? That’s the most that will stay with you.”

Isak nods, reverting into himself. The beer doesn’t taste as delicious as it did earlier but he drinks it anyway, tuning out the conversation between the other two boys as his focus is taken up by everything’s he going to lose soon enough: himself, his family, Kris, everything he’s ever known. He’s overwhelmed with the enormity of the idea and irritated with Jonas for spoiling what had started off as an enjoyable afternoon, sat by the log fire with a handsome boy who is the only person so far that doesn’t make him feel completely alone.

“Hey,” Even reaches out, “it’s cool, yeah? We get a whole new life. Don’t stress.”

“Take your own advice, Naesheim,” Jonas grins, “I’m off, boys. Take care of Isak, he’s got Noora as his guide,” eyes bulging, his sympathy clear, before he’s gone in the blink of an eye. Even suggests they continue Isak’s journey to Rose Hill, so they abandon almost-finished beers and walk, Isak calmed by how easy it is to be in Even’s presence: he doesn’t have to remember he’s dead, on a ticking time bomb before Isak Valtersen evaporates forever.

“Here,” Even gestures, turning right, “here we are.”

Even was correct. It’s beautiful. They cross through a small arch, adorned in pink roses, to the open maze of flowers that expand over the gardens, Even happy, making little quips and observations as they go.

_ “These are floribunda roses, Isak.” _

_ “These are New England wild roses.” _

_ “Look, Isak, look! It’s a Damask rose.” _

Isak is blissfully baffled by his rose knowledge but rolls with it. Even has a sunny, uplifting presence and if he doesn’t care about Isak’s woes and concerns he’s a fantastic liar, serious and soft as he listens. 

“Come and look,” Even demands happily, ahead of Isak after a good twenty minutes into their afternoon stroll. Isak catches up, seeing Even stood beside a glarish purple bed of roses. Isak watches as he pulls up his denim jacket, sleeves pushed up his forearms as he reaches out, careful to mind the protruding thorns.

It’s then when Isak sees the deep scars on his inner wrist, jagged, a distant pink faded into white.

Even follows his eyeline and the mood shifts, less balanced and innocent than just seconds before.

“Uh. Being alive was hard, for me,” Even explains, tugging his jacket back down, ashamed. Isak isn’t sure what to say. It’s hard to believe someone like Even, whose smile could split the sun, did what he did, the evidence on his skin. 

“I’m sorry,” Isak blurts out, “I’m sorry that happened. My Mama, she, uh. She was sick. She tried to do - that.”

Even looks at him, uncertain. Isak remembers the way his Mama would rant about her friends, the family, treating her like an abnormality and he knows from the subsequent help she received she wasn’t crazy. Isak was ignorant, he lashed out but he wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Even.

“I’m really sorry, Even,” he said, edging closer to the taller boy. He’d like to say he’s slow and experimental but he’s not, instead leaning in fast and sneaking skinny arms around Even’s waist. His heart leaps to his throat until Even winds his arms back around Isak and reciprocates the embrace, Isak feeling the soft bounce of Even’s hair against his neck. 

“Thank you,” Even mumbles, “that’s kind of you.”

“It’s chill,” Isak rushes out, until they awkwardly let go. Even starts to smile, Isak sticking his hands in his pockets and hoping he isn’t blushing too furiously when the deep, cruel pain of this morning flares up once more like a red-hot angry rat in his stomach.

“Ah!” he cries out, doubling over, pressing his knees into the dirt as the pain forces him to bend and clutch at himself in fear. 

“Please,” he begs, another jolt making him scream out in agony, not sure who he’s begging or for what for but nothing makes sense, not as the demanding, all-consuming torturous squeezes kick in. 

“Isak? What’s happening? Isak? Jonas!”

It sounds like Even’s getting further away, his voice quietening in Isak’s head as he shouts out loud of help, the tinny sound of nothing echoing in Isak’s ears. His heightened senses kick in and the pain is too much for Isak to take, bolting through him and taking over, no mercy as Isak sobs into the grass of the garden. 

He must pass out because he wakes to Jonas hovering above him, Even too. Jonas’s hands are on his stomach and Isak shoots a hand there himself, checking, but nothing presses back to tries to harm him. The sharp punches he was experiencing mere minutes ago have abided, Even also pressing down on his covered tummy with gentle fingers.

“Is it The Reveal?” Even asks Jonas, Isak blinking at him from his horizontal position. At least his view is rather pleasant, Even on his left and Jonas on his right, roses scattered around in his peripheral view.

Jonas’s quietly muttered _ “I think so”  _ makes Isak is nervous seeing Even’s silent reaction, a haunted look on his face as Jonas half confirms what Isak’s physical episodes are.

“You ok, bro?” Jonas asks, Isak giggling with a slur. An Angel, of all things, calling him ‘bro’ isn’t something that Isak is used to at all. He feels lethargic and heavy, exhausted, no control over himself physically as he limps onto his side before arms scoop him up and he’s cosy against someone’s body, in their arms. 

“Eskild should really speak to him,” Isak’s vaguely able to hear, Even’s tone clipped. 

“Isak will be fine,” Jonas says hastily, “this is normal.”

“It’s not right,” Even argues, but it’s weak and quiet, “can you snap us back to his? I’ll see to him.”

Isak dozes off soon after, lost. He dreams of running through a leafy maze until he’s pushed by something invisible, falling, smacking his face into concrete, nose broken and bloody and eye smashed blue, bruised. He hears his nose crack on the ground, feels his eye pulse and bleed, his body weak.

_ I’m not supposed to be here. Not yet.   
_

*  
  


_ Isak couldn’t see Kris on the dance floor so excused himself from friends and made his way out to the smoking garden. He waved excitedly upon seeing him, cigarette hanging out his mouth, a flirty wink for Isak as Isak crashed into his chest. _

_ “Kris,” he whined, “let me have some.” _

_ He grabbed for the cigarette only to have Kris pull it out of his way, smacking his wandering fingers. _

_ “Nuh uh,” Kris reprimanded him, “you won’t keep that innocent little face if you smoke, Isak.” _

_ Isak laughed, wanting to laze against his best friend, drunk and affectionate more than usual. Kris looked so good, too, in his tight long sleeved pale pink shirt, hair quiffed to perfection and black jeans snug. Isak stared up his jaw, nuzzled it a little. _

_ “What are you doing?” Kris asked, sharp. Isak blinked at him in curiosity, not sure what Kris meant. It was his birthday night out and he was tipsy and brave in ways he wasn’t usually, pawing again at Kris. _

_ “What?” Isak whispered, insistent, “just kiss me.” _

_ Kris threw the cigarette angrily to the ground, stomping on it with a force that shook Isak off him, Isak having to stand, shakily, on his own two feet. _

_ “I know you’re wasted,” Kris snapped, “but this is fucking inappropriate. We’re friends. I’m straight, Isak. You’re embarrassing yourself.” _

_ Isak may have been drunk but he wasn’t unaware of what was being said to him, humiliated tears prickling in the corners of his eyes.  _

_ “You fucking hypocrite,” he accused, both of them surprised that Isak would ever speak back, “for years you’ve led me on. Years. You know - you know - ” _

_ “ - know what?” Kris pushed, quickly checking that no one else had joined them outside, couldn’t hear this altercation, “I don’t know what you’ve got twisted in your head but you better get over it fast. Whatever you think is real isn’t.” _

_ Kris was close and Isak relished those moments when he got to look at Kris like this, but seeing the annoyance, and strangely, the fear, in his expression was not something Isak ever wanted to see again. _

_ None of it was real, Kris insisted, but Isak knew he wasn’t being completely honest. There’s no way a straight, unaffected friend would allow Isak to sleep in his bed after they stayed up watching horror films, spooning Isak and laughing, letting Isak spoon him back. He wouldn’t feed Isak, quite literally, whenever he tried something new in the kitchen, spoon resting against Isak’s lips as he forced Isak to shut his eyes and guess what the new dish could be. He wouldn’t detest the thought of Isak flirting, dating or fucking someone. _

_ For years Isak had hoped it would all add up to the day Kris admitted his love for him and left Aud but Isak saw, right then, Kris never would.  _

_ Kris reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and fishing about to hand Isak 300 Krone. _

_ “Get a taxi home,” he muttered, “you need to sleep this off.” _

_ Isak stared at the money in his hand, the thump of the music inside louder each time another drunk boy fell into the garden, cackling, glitter on his eyelids, pushing past Kris and Isak’s uncomfortable conversation. _

_ “Do not come back in here,” Kris warned, starting to leave, “go home and think about what you’ve said.” _

_ Isak can’t bear to look at him, eyes trained on the rustled up bank notes until he feels Kris leave him alone. That’s when he starts to weep.  
_

*  


Isak wakes happily, content, rested. He was often rushing about for school back when was alive, always late and grumpy about having to go anywhere, tired regardless of how busy he’d been but as he stretches from fingertips to tiptoes this morning he feels ready for the day.

Yawning as he gets out of bed, jogging down stairs for water, he’s met with the pleasant view of a sleeping Even. Even’s a bit too tall for Isak’s sofa, feet sticking out the blanket he found, face half smushed into a cushion and hair askew. Isak grins. He looks peaceful like that. They never got the chance to talk about what Isak saw, the branding on Even’s wrist of the hardship he suffered in life. Isak reaches out to touch, careful, brushing some astray dark blonde hair off Even’s forehead.

The smoothness of Even’s skin reminds him of the time he’d play with Kris, when Kris was in one of those moods, letting Isak clamber on top of him for a play fight. 

_ Kris. I hate Kris. Why? What happened? _

Everything’s a noisy, fizzy mess whenever Isak tries to recall anything from his life. His memories of his best friend will replay and everything’s warm for one second until Isak feels sick, anger bubbling away inside him but he can’t remember why.

He’s drifted off until he looks back down at his tender, explorative fingers against Even’s forehead and sees those inquisitive eyes blinking at him.

“That’s good,” Even mumbles, Isak’s face heating up.

“Sorry,” he cringes, fingers creeping away. The last thing Even needs is Isak’s desperation for affection and the last thing Isak needs is to fall in love with a straight boy, not again. Even had mentioned a girl -  _ Suya? Sodja? _ \- and Isak’s daft little jolt of sadness at hearing Even reference his past girlfriend made him want to slap himself silly. 

“‘K,” Even sighs, eyes shutting, “your hands are silky soft. Mmm. S’nice.”

Isak is still hot and embarrassed, shuffling into the kitchen for the water he intended to help himself to, pouring another for his guest and he’s getting used to  _ Limbo _ when he sees Noora perched on a kitchen top and he doesn’t even jump.

“Hi,” he says stiffly, still not certain about her. Noora fixes him with one of her classic cool stares.

“What?”

“You had another turn,” she accuses, like he chose to do it, “you called Jonas, not me.”

“I was with Even,” he hisses, not wanting to alarm Even with a raised voice, “he called for Jonas. I think. I don’t know. God, it’s not a big deal.”

“Running after boys was what got you into this mess in the first place,” she snaps nastily, her ethereal glow shivering, splashes of grey and watery black visible in her heated state.

“What does that mean?” Isak asks, rooted to the spot. He did run after Kris but Kris in relation to this? His heart speeds and he feels sick, faint, breath catching in his throat. Even is stirring, waking and it makes Isak’s panic race, propelling him to the top of his fears.

“I just - ” Noora stops, halting and unsure. She steps to touch Isak, Isak flinching but she isn’t fair, using her abilities to keep him still so she can touch his neck and drug him with relaxation. He fights it, knowing there’s an argument forming in his throat that he wants to shout out and demand the answers to but he’s just a small dead boy and she’s a powerful Higher Order  _ mukta _ .

“It’s alright,” she whispers, “that was too soon. I apologise.”

His mind is alert and screaming at the power imbalance here but quickly slipping into relaxation, making him woozy and weak as Noora forcefully relaxes him. She’s gripping lightly but it’s a grip of steel.

“You’re fine,” she tells him, adamant, like his Mama at church when she’d recite her prayers with fervent need for them to come true. Isak’s mind, the bits that aren’t anesthetized with false happiness, flickers: he hopes she’s not too heart broken.

“Come on,” Noora encourages, on her feet and lightly pushing Isak back to Even, “let’s go.”  


*  
  
_“Come on! Let’s go!”_

_ Shrieks of angry drunken fools make Isak fearful, but at least no one is bothering him as he wanders the busy streets, barely aware of his route. People are drunk and hollering but Isak feels invisible to them, tears streaming down his face and not one person stops to ask if he’s ok, if needs help. The shock of how alone he is hits him and it hurts, an expanding sadness in his chest, making him stop and weep before he stops and rests for a few moments against a restaurant wall. He’s clutching the money in his hands, still, taxis passing by despite Isak stopping to stand, to wave his arm out, get home. No one stops, no one is interested in the sobbing boy with bright pink stripes on his cheeks.  _

_ He gives up and takes a turn, still drunk and hopeless and heartbroken. The busy night quietens as he begins to find his way back to Grønland, wiping at his wet face with his arm, getting the now dry but sticky bits of face paint all over it.  _

_ There’s less footsteps, less music, less giggling girls half bumping into him.  _

_ Isak fumbles with his phone to check where he is. _

_ A twelve minute walk. _

_ He sniffs, checking the road for a ride but it’s silent, forcing him to turn down the next path and starts the journey back to their little flat.  _

_ It’s not far. _

  
*

It’s been almost two weeks in Heaven.

Isak’s working hard to stop comparing Even to Kris but it’s difficult when Kris was his only true friend. He had many friends but only one real one who knew him properly and there’s that similarity with Even who picks up on his nervous habits but also laughs at his dumb, awkward jokes, sings along with him when he tries to beatbox. Kris pops up in his memories and it makes Isak furious but his fury is still difficult to explain. He knows there’s pieces of his jigsaw puzzle that is his death that he can’t place and despite it being maddening he isn’t sure if he wants to know the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Even is far kinder than Kris, Isak knows this. Sometimes he sees it in the big things and other times the smaller things, like Even taking the time to ask Isak what he wants to drink, eat (rather than assuming and choosing for him) to letting Isak speak. It isn’t until several days after being in Even’s company that Isak realises sometimes he’ll be speaking for an age but Even hasn’t once rolled his eyes or interrupted him, unless it’s to ask questions or offer advice. Even is making this easier but Isak knows there’s a lot he needs to figure out on his own. He still goes to sleep alone, frightful as he crawls into the large, hostile bed, knowing he’ll be subject to cruel dreams and vivid nightmares that hold him down like a crazed prisoner. He isn’t free, constantly terrified of the pain coming back to make him vomit with fear and sheer physical agony.

Isak interacts with Noora when necessary but tries to keep his afterlife queries limited to Jonas, if not only for the fact Jonas brings a blunt or two with him when Isak calls.

“We deserve it,” he’ll mutter as he sparks up, both of them crouched on the back door that leads to Isak’s pretty patio garden. If he gets stoned enough he can just about conjure up memories of his life on earth, whispering things about Cueva del Milodón and the Choapa River which fascinates Isak, having never left Norway. He’d have loved to see the world, eat  _ braai _ in Cape Town, swim in lagoons in Zanzibar, visit St. Basil’s Cathedral. Jonas has spent time all over earth, stationed at different places to learn more about humanity, from wintery poles in Antarctica to the scorched earth deserts of Australia.

Isak’s eighteen years old and the only places he’s ever known are Oslo and this nowhere land.

Isak doesn’t know what day it is but Jonas is glittering around his living room when his eyes light up, animated.

“Hey,” he says slowly, “wanna do something cool?”

Isak shrugs, intrigued. He doesn’t have time to blink or draw a breath but it’s a seamless transition from his comfy heaven home to an enormous, empty skate park, Jonas balancing precariously on the edge of it, sharp yellow skateboard under his feet. He looks ridiculous, really, hair bouncy and wild and like a teenage pimp in his white shirt and jeans. Isak’s teased before if this isn’t Heaven why on earth all the Higher Orders are dressed like angels out of a nativity scene but shot down by Noora who informed him in her clipped, cold tone, “ _ for the last time, you see what you want to see, Isak. I’m wearing denim jeans and a red shirt and speaking Latvian. You’re just a dead jiva, you can’t comprehend the complexities of the afterlife _ .”

_ Yeah, fuck you too, Noora. _

The light wind blows some of Jonas’s curls off his face and Isak hollers in support as he whizzes down the park and up again at the opposite end, showing off as he twists on his way back to Isak, breathless as he comes to a standstill.

“You got speed,” Isak jokes in English, Jonas nodding.

“I spent some time in L.A in the ‘60s,” Jonas sighs, never knowing how wild his experiences sound to Isak’s ears, “plus I have like, 60 years of experience.”

He shoves the board to Isak.

“Off you go, Bambi. Good luck.”

“What?!” Isak laughs, “no way, I’ll die!” he protests, looking out at the huge dip of the park. Isak can’t skateboard and he’ll just fall miserably and crush himself against the concrete.

_ Smashed against the concrete _ . His brain fizzles in a way he can’t make out, for a split second, the tiniest moment.

“Fine,” Jonas sighs, and with a raised hand he solves the issue. Isak is now looking at Jonas from behind something which he can’t make out exactly, Jonas’s image clear, as if they were looking at each other from behind a window. Isak reaches out to touch the shimmering energy in front of him, feeling nothing.

“Go!” Jonas demands with joy, Isak shakily putting the skateboard in place and starting to lean his weight onto it. He looks out at the park, just for them, and smiles.

He whizzes through the air at a lightening speed, squealing embarrassingly as he flies and for three seconds it's wonderful until he inevitably crashes, laughing as he spins into the wall and lies there helplessly, the safety bubble Jonas conjured up ensuring his bones remain in tact.

“Yeah, we knew that was gonna happen didn’t we,” Jonas giggles, helping him up, “‘k, let’s chill.”

Chill consists on lying at the top of the park looking at the sky, which Jonas informs Isak is a mockup of the real sky. They smoke joints and chat and Isak is feeling it, mind on a loop and his mouth loose and silly as they lie there.

“I hope I meet God,” he says, head feeling too big for his body, “that’d be sick.”

Jonas just laughs through his smoke, coughing slightly, smirking to himself.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Isak pouts, taking the joint back, “you suck.”

“Shut up,  _ jiva _ fool,” Jonas jokes before groaning slightly.

“We gotta go,” he sighs, “Even needs me.”

Before Isak can ask a question they’re with Even, sat on the floor in his spacious studio. Isak’s not been to Even’s home despite their evolving friendship but it’s nice, it’s what he’d imagine Even would have, an arty, open space with big windows overlooking one of the main town squares and the main river in Limbo.

“Isak,” Even says, clearly not expecting his presence, “er, you…”

“We were skateboarding,” Isak explains, wondering just how bloodshot his eyes are or if Jonas managed to magically fix that in time. He’s sat crossed legged, with Jonas next to him while Even sprawls out opposite. Isak knows something isn’t right; it’s the the slouch of Even’s shoulders and the unknown, unsaid things Even and Jonas are saying to each other, Jonas’s entire demeanour changing from happy-go-lucky rebel angel to serious Higher Order all-knowing guide. 

“Cool,” Even says, not that interested, “but, uh, I need to speak to Jonas. Alone.”

Isak can’t help the hurt that curls in him but he knows he’s being irrational. Jonas is Even’s guide, his confidant, and Isak has no place in that relationship.

“Ok,” he nods, understanding, “I’ll see you both soon, then?”

Even looks at him with disappointment but nods and Isak has no time to react, already having been zapped back to his lonely house. His head aches, heavy, slipping off trainers as he stumbles into his dining room, jumping slightly as he sees Noora shimmering beside the wooden table.

“Isak,” she greets, awkward, “hello.”

Isak winces, guilt already licking at his ankles. He actively avoids Noora, her cool attitude and lack of patience making him feel like a burden but as he scans the sight before him there’s two glasses of lemonade and one kebab on a china plate, overflowing with salad, Noora shrugging once he takes his eyes off it.

“Your favourite?” she says, “come.”

Isak obeys, tentative as he takes his seat beside her. Noora’s sat upright, posture perfect, head high and it makes Isak ashamed for a second of his lazy slouch. 

“I am here to help you,” she says, but it’s clinical and off, like a pay packet teacher disinterestedly tutoring a child, “I feel we perhaps need more time together.”

“Thanks,” Isak mumbles, sipping at the lemonade, eyes wide as he swallows.

“Good, yes?” she perks up, “I went to Palermo for it.  _ Godere _ .”

Isak manages a smile, but it’s odd eating in front of someone who doesn’t seem to eat. Noora speaks at him about herself, how she was born and raised in Daugavpils, Latvia, dying in the destruction of the Dünaburg castle. Isak attempts to keep his focus on the present and on his Guide but the inevitable happens and he wanders off, wondering what the conversation is like in Even’s household. Even was conflicted; Isak saw it plain as day.

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” Noora cuts in, an abrupt smile on her dainty face, “we’ll see each other soon.”

“Thank you,” Isak says with a mouthful of onion, eyes downcast, feeling Noora leave rather than seeing it. He wants to finish the meal but he’s full of anxiety and there’s no space in his tummy to allow for it, pushing his plate aside. He thinks of Jonas, not wanting to call him out selfishly when Even must need him, but the voices in his head tease him, bait him.

“No,” he tells himself, speaking to walls, “leave them be.”

So he does.  


*

  
Isak doesn’t miss his daily alarm, that’s for certain. The Afterlife doesn’t run on time so Isak is free to wake at his leisure rather than be held captive by the obnoxious ringing of his iphone as he was back on earth. He feels slightly happier, knowing that he’s waking naturally and not at his phone’s demand, but he isn’t ready for the sight he sees as he makes his way into the bathroom one morning.

“God,” he mutters, pulling at his skin which looks sunken and sullen. He wants the pretty glow that some residents have, shimmering light around them, and their skin so smooth and clean rather than looking like they’ve been on day-long benders and only seen sunlight once this past month.

Maybe he should eat something other than kebab. It is Heaven, after all, almost, and maybe salad here isn’t as disgusting as he always found it to be back when he was alive.

He’s cringing at his reflection, unimpressed with what he sees when the evil that seems to lie dormant inside of him awakens, nudging on the inside of his stomach and forcing him to bend, hips jutting into the sink basin.

“No,” he begs, not ready for this, not for the third time. The unnamed pain isn’t merciful, though, and doesn’t care for Isak’s pleas, only stronger this time as it kicks out again, Isak forcefully threw to his knees. The tears of agony leak from his eyelids and the strangled yell he’s been trying to keep down escapes before all he knows is the feeling, the feeling that he’s being ripped open from the inside, innards spilling out bloodily. 

_ It’s just a feeling. Feel it, acknowledge you feel it, but it’s only a feeling, not a fact. _

Kris was a psychotherapist; often talking Isak out of anxiety cycles.

Isak feel wetness on his nightshirt and looks down to see blood, thick gushes of it between his fingers, fingers which are holding himself together. The fear, the unknown source of it makes him vomit, missing his toilet and instead emptying his empty stomach all over his bathroom tiles. If he was hoping for a break he’s unlucky, screaming as pain wins and leaves him hopeless, surrendered to it, until there’s nothing, nothing at all.

“Stop!” he screams, begging, fist slammed against the bathroom floor, “I can’t do it! Noora!”

He only sees her feet, paralysed by anger and agony as she just stands there, a mere foot away from him as he sweats and writhes on the floor.

“Help me,” he tries to scream in fury but it comes out weak and desperate, “I’m dying.”

“You died a month ago,” Noora snipes, “Isak, you have to fight this. It’s too soon. Don’t give in.”

Isak sobs, thrashing, trying to reach her and just fucking pull her down with him, as reckless as that would be. He can’t harm a Higher Order being and God only knows what kind of hell would rain down on him if he tried, let alone succeeded in causing any hurt to Noora. He’s delirious with it, shaking, the pain as insidious as sepsis, making his body shake like a feather on the Akerselva River. He vomits miserably, a cough rather than a heave.

“I hate you!” Isak snarls, trying to kick out, the pain manifesting in animosity, “stop this! I want to see - I need this to end, now!”

His forehead is sticking to the floor with sweat, the work of surviving making his every bone, muscle ache and protest but it’s that thought that catches, like a distracted fly into the spider’s web: he’s putting every effort into fighting this powerful takeover, this destructive force when he’s already dead. He doesn’t need to survive.

“No - ” he hears Noora whisper, horrified, but he’s already gone limp, abdicating.

A lifetime passes, or perhaps a second.

He’s born again on a white floor, a never ending space, white where he lies and white to the back, the top, a matrix of nothing. He checks, panicked, his stomach, but the bloody war that happened a second ago has ended, like it never happened. He’s in the jeans, the shirt, the blazer from his time of death.

_ 02:12am, 22nd June 2017 . _

Isak never knew that nothingness could be so overwhelming, but lying on the white floor, alone, looking out into constant space made his heart race wildly. He closes his eyes for the briefest of times, breathing out slowly, before shuffling onto his knees, up onto his feet. He tests the floor, like it might fall through, feet careful as he takes wobbly steps, as if on ice.

From the corner of his mind a memory starts to play; what felt like death, his submergence under water where he kicked like a horse, breathing with ease despite humans inability to do so. He may be surrounded by oxygen and on his feet in this fake reality but breathing certainly seems more difficult.

No blood, no pain, no one here.

He peers in the distance, sure he saw a glimmer, like heat rising on the road. He wants to walk towards it but like heat rising, it continues to move, Isak never catching up with it. He stands still, impatient, and waits, until the glimmer sure enough comes back, growing into a tight, swirling, opal ball. It begins to fizz, like a tiny firework, until the white light of it blinds Isak and makes him shield his eyes, an explosion of sunlight that produces Eskild, Noora to his side. They look at Isak without any warmth, irritation obvious on Noora’s face but Eskild’s is blank.

“Eskild?” Isak asks, knowing Eskild holds many keys to many doors, “what’s this?”

Eskild clenches his jaw and visibly takes a breath. 

“Tell me what you know so far,” Eskild demands. There’s a force radiating off him that’s mesmerising, Isak’s subconscious mind telling him to fight it but he isn’t sure why he feels distrustful of the angels.

“Nothing,” Isak lies.

_ 02:21am, Mjøsa, the woman with dark eyes. _

“A lie,” Eskild spits, reading his every thought.

“I can’t remember what it means,” Isak protests, walking towards them to close the distance, “please, Eskild, I’m confused.”

Eskid looks to Noora, once again sharing a private thought with her which enrages Isak, standing here alone and disorientated after yet another tormentful episode. 

“Don’t treat me like I’m not here,” Isak yells, heart roaring in his chest, surprised himself at how on edge he feels, how loud his voice sounds in this empty space. It’s a temporary moment of power though, as Eskild rounds on him and the threat of his godly strength makes Isak twitch, stood on shaky legs.

“You’ve pushed and pushed,” Eskild states, slowly, “you had to fight, didn’t you? Now we’re here, and no one is ready for this, Isak.”

Isak’s breaths are loud, stomach moving visibly as he pants, starting to pace a little, the energy spinning through his veins crazed and excited. It’s ridiculous, what Eskild claims, that these Higher Order beings are so powerless to the processes of the Afterlife, that Isak doesn’t deserve clarity. The anger that calmed briefly flares up in him once more but not before a fleeting thought passes him.

“Where’s Jonas? Even? I want to see them.”

Noora frowns at that, one hand on her hip as she watches Isak from a distance.

“Why on earth would Even be here? He’s not Higher Order,” she answers, pity in her voice, “this is your issue, Isak, you can’t have friends holding your hand for you all the time.”

“This is my death,” Isak retorts, “I want my friends here.”

Eskild shakes his head, mirroring Noora’s pity but with a wave of his hand Jonas ad Even stand, in the empty matrix, Even bewildered but Jonas aghast as he knows where they are.

“Oh shit,” Jonas mutters, “this is bad.”

“Yes,” Eskild rolls his eyes, “it is. No thanks to you.”

“Jonas?” Isak frowns, “why?”

Jonas looks guilty, opening his mouth to speak but silenced by Eskild’s eyes.

“Your  _ friend _ ,” Eskild declares, sarcastic, “has been looking into helping you, going against direct orders. You, Isak, are to learn about your fate just like every other  _ jiva _ does. You’re determined to make a mockery of this, aren’t you? Somehow, you’ve managed to get a  _ mukta _ on your side.”

Isak wants to protest too but Eskild is on a roll and Isak knows, instinctively, he shouldn’t interrupt.

“The worst part is,” Eskild continues, rounding on Jonas, “that a  _ mukta  _ like you, Jonas, would go against our orders. Isak Valtersen is not special. What is it about this boy that is making you run around the universe in secret, hmm?”

“Nothing,” Jonas whispers, “I just want to help him.”

Eskild looks him up and down, raises a hand. Isak sees a fear in Jonas’s eyes that he wants to erase with immediate effect, scrub it away so he never has to see that look ever again and he’s barely aware of Even’s horror, Even stood out of Isak’s eyeline. 

It happens so fast. Jonas disintegrates bit by bit, falling apart until every little black drop that makes him Jonas is spinning wildly in a small black ball, glowing brightly despite the darkness before it explodes, gone. 

“No,” Isak gasps, “no. No. Where is he? Where did you send him?!”

Eskild is barely listening, at least that’s what it looks like to Isak, eyes in the distance. Isak gapes at Noora, who at least has the heart to look upset by the obliteration of her colleague, gathering herself when she sees Isak’s eyes on her. 

“No,” Isak shakes his head, “bring him back. Bring him back right now!”

He’s furious, hot tears of injustice spilling down his face, rounding on Eskild. Eskild looks faintly amused, and Isak supposes that would be a fair reaction, the sight of an angry little dead boy, thinking he can take on this well put-together, broad, tall leader of the Afterlife. Eskild steps to meet Isak and Isak is set to run. He’s never fought in his life, knows he’s destined for the same fate as Jonas, but in this moment he doesn’t care. 

He stops after seeing Even, face ashy grey, stunned in horror after seeing what must have been his best friend punished so drastically by Eskild. It’s the silent devastation he sees there that makes Isak freeze.

“I want to see whoever it is that gives your orders,” Isak states, numb, “I want to see them now.”

Eskild scoffs, hands brushing down his smart jacket, looking over at Noora like he expects her to mock Isak’s arrogance.

“There’s not a chance,” Eskild replies.

“I want to see him,” Isak demands hotly, “take me there, or bring him here, I don’t care, Eskild! I want to see God!”

“God?” Noora asks, eyebrows raised, “that can’t… you can’t.”

“No,” Eskild says, finally looking shook, “let’s not protect him. He can meet God.”

The matrix begins to shake, the floor moving like tectonic plates, Eskild’s head thrown back and arms splayed out as he speaks in a language Isak doesn’t understand. Even’s in shock, Isak recognises it from the times he’s had to tend to his Mother after particularly awful bouts of her illness. He tries to get closer, to comfort him, but he’s knocked to his knees by a bright light and a particularly jarring jolt. The force of it winds him, making him heave and cough, spluttering as he tries to kneel, to look upwards. Eskild has stood aside, head bowed in deference, but Isak sees nothing.

“Where is he?” Isak asks, wiping his mouth, checking on Even who sits, head bowed, sadness radiating off him.

Neither angel replies, but Isak sees it, just as he saw it with Jonas. A fleck of black in the air, until there’s two flecks, ten, a small rolling ball in the atmosphere that begins to flesh out, to create something; someone. He watches as they spread, as shoulders are created, black, and they fall down to produce a body, hips and legs and hands and back up, until there’s a face, eyes that Isak could swear he knows well, dark lips and a pinned hijab, all put together in black. 

“This is - ”

“ - I know who it is,” she snarls, Eskild’s mouth closing quick.

“Hello, Isak,” she says, scarily soft, “I hear you’ve been asking for me.”

Isak’s dumbfounded, staring up at her. She radiates power in a way Isak’s never felt, thrumming with it. Time stretches out as each person stares at either the woman or Isak, waiting.

“Are you…” Isak begins, his voice an echo in the silent room, “who are you?”

“I’m who you’ve been asking for,” she declares, “you may call me Sana.”

Isak’s aware of Even, not too far, still grey from despair at seeing Jonas removed without mercy. Isak wishes he could read minds, could comfort him somehow but reading the room, this should not be his number one concern.

“Jonas?” he asks, hating that there’s a lump threatening to form in the back of his throat, “is he alive? Please, he’s a good guy - ”

“ - a rebel,” Eskild interjects,

“ - a good guide. I swear. Please, tell me, he’s not gone?” Isak begs, too confused for tears to form again, but the lump forms and stays there nonetheless. Sana holds one wrist by the other hand, her aura so powerful Isak can hear it, like soft, beautiful whispers around her in a language Isak doesn’t speak.

Sana is looking past them, at something Isak will never know, because there is nothing here.

“You must settle, Isak, otherwise things could go very wrong for you,” Sana warns, perhaps threatens, Isak wouldn’t bet on either but from the way her eyes make him shake he doesn’t feel comforted by her, not at all.

“You want to know how you died, Isak?” she asks, cruel, “ok. Let’s find out.”  


 

*

**  
Chapter 2 will follow soon(ish)!**

 


	2. How To Be Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a race against time for Isak and Even, and Isak learns the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Μετεμψύχωσις = Greek for metempsychosis, equivalent to “reincarnation” which is Latin and literally means “entering the flesh again”
> 
> Atman = one’s soul, a jiva may go through the samsara cycle time after time but their Atman remains the same as it is their soul throughout all reincarnation, even though personalities, lives, memories change
> 
> The song Noora sings is a Latvian folk song which translates as “I fled by day, I fled by night, Laima’s fate I couldn’t fee. Whatever fate she decreed that was how my life was lived.” Taken from the song about the Goddess Laima, meaning fortune/destiny/luck.
> 
> I took the liberty of making Even British and Northern by birth. Sheffield Forever, tha knos! (You should really go The Fat Cat for a pie btw. Southerners don’t know they’re born. Yes I sound posh for those who heard my accent challenge, I’m a mystery alright). I wasn’t going to Britishfy his name to Ewan, which is probably the closest so let’s just pretend two Northern parents looked down a little blonde bundle of joy one day and said, “eh, reckon we should call ‘im Even, love.” 
> 
> Angel’s auras can “sing”, so sometimes Isak hears songs/noise around the Angels and the language tends to be in their own language (English/Arabic/Latvian/etc).
> 
> For anyone concerned about Sana/Noora/Eskild’s evilness… remember I said not all is at it seems. This is the last chapter so everything will be revealed! 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings** : Murder Scene, Violent Attack, Mentions of Suicide

 

_ Isak swayed as he walked fast down the small, dark backstreet, shoving his phone in his pocket. It was quiet, eerily so, now the noise of the partygoers from blocks back had gone. He was drunk but present and therefore able to spot a figure of a stranger in the middle of the alley. His pace picked up but it was too late to turn back, so he continued, sure it was just a lost smoker. _

_ His quick steps brought him to the stranger quickly, relief settling in upon seeing Kris’s face. _

_ “Kris,” he whispered, tipsy, “thank God,” he half giggled, until he saw the dark look on his friend’s face. _

_ “Knew you’d come down here,” Kris slurred, “gave you money but no, you’re gonna pocket it, aren’t you? Take the risk and walk home anyway.” _

_ “What?” Isak continued in a soft, quiet voice, stumbling a little as they remained half way down the dark alley, one beaming light ensuring it wasn’t pitch black, “I just - there were no taxis - ” _

_ His scream was strangled in his throat as Kris threw him against the brick wall, large hands Isak once fantasised about now a nightmare as he wrapped one around Isak’s throat and kept Isak’s body pinned there with his free hand. Isak’s scream was pinched and broken, making no speed. Kris, a rugby player, gripped Isak’s neck with force. _

_ “What?” Isak managed to get out, choked, terrified as Kris forces his face up, scraping against the wall, Isak on tiptoes, grasping about to find something to hold on to, to yank at.  _

_ “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Kris asked, Isak horrified to see him tearful, eyes bloodshot, pupils pin-pricked, “this is what you wanted.” _

_ He kissed Isak, the one thing Isak had craved since he was fifteen, bitter and rough. Isak struggled, neck twisting painfully as Kris’s strength kept Isak prisoner but he was also weak, intoxicated, which allowed for weakness. Isak wrestled desperately, getting one arm free, using it to drive his elbow sharply into a soft rib, Kris’s grip weakened as he stumbled back slightly. Isak took his chance and began to sprint, terrified adrenaline pumping through him as he headed for the end of the alley but there was no hope nor freedom: he could never outrun the larger, stronger man on his heels. Kris had him back in a locked, unwanted embrace in seconds, this time his hand squeezed much tighter, much more angrily around Isak’s neck. He shoved Isak back against the wall, a little further down the back street, Isak’s face shoved into the wall, cheekbone crackling into brick as he looked back in fear.  _

_ “I can’t breathe,” he pleaded, fighting to no avail, “Kris, please. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.” _

_ Kris was angry, teeth clenched and eyes wild, tears spilling out of them and Isak’s words only fuelling his crazed rage. Isak felt everything slipping away, warm wetness on his own cheeks as he realised what was happening, feeling light headed, the fight leaving his body as his lungs fought for air, air that never came.   
_

*

  
“Your last breath was choked out of you at 02:21am on 22nd June 2017. You were found at 05:41am by an early morning runner, declared dead by Oslo Hospital paramedics at 06:34am,” Sana reveals, Isak brought back to the white matrix. 

Isak stares at the pristine white floor, one hand travelling to his neck. The neck his best friend squeezed to death.

Sana conjures a mirror with her hand, raised in front of Isak’s eyes.

“See yourself as you truly are,” she suggests, “see the truth.”

The human obsession with morbidity and death gets to him, eyes drawn to the mirror image she’s projecting and it’s there, ugly black and purple bruising across his neck from Kris’s strong hands. The pain he’s been experiencing in abundance threatens once more and Isak believes if it happens again, he’ll beg Sana to do as Eskild did to Jonas and throw him off the face of existence - earth or otherwise - forever. 

“This is what happened,” Sana spits icily.

Isak falls apart silently, unable to look anymore at the large, purple bruising, the death marked on his skin, until his sobs are noisy and desperate and hurt his already damaged throat. He doesn’t question comfort when it comes but he does feel the matrix burst open, clinging tightly to the other body next to him, eyes clamping shut in fear, letting himself be held and tucked into warmth.

“I’m so sorry,” Even whispers, covering them with Isak’s thick duvet, cocooning them safely in this protective womb, “Isak.”

Isak’s head splits, the energy of remembering forcing his body to give in to sleep, sobs halting as he slips away.  


*  


The smell of breakfast isn’t an unpleasant way to be woken and neither is it unusual. Isak can usually smell delicious baked goods being rolled out and rising in ovens across  _ Limbo _ , making him hunger for a pastry or something doughy. He pats down the dint in his mattress and remembers Even’s body was there last night, something steady and reliable in this world of chaos. Music travels up the stairs, peaking Isak’s interest and forcing him up, feet pattering down the wooden stairs to find Even in his kitchen in a large t-shirt, his lean legs bare.

“Morning,” he greets, “I’m making food.”

Isak’s about to smile when he remembers: the matrix, Jonas, the handprint on his neck. Even’s on edge too, sympathetic as he pushes the pan aside to dart into Isak’s space, yet not too close.

“Hey,” he says, as gentle as one would be with a frightened animal, “Isak.”

Even’s perceptive and that opal glimmer that often catches Isak’s eye, the one that lives around Even, is still going so Isak knows he’s in tune with others to some degree: it’s a sign of an Angel, or a long term resident. He reaches out and strokes Isak’s cheekbone with the back of his hand, Isak dipping into the touch slightly. 

“It’ll get better, now,” Even promises, “it will.”

Isak nods his agreement, appeasing Even even if he isn’t sure if he believes in his words. Even is far less bright than usual, Isak sensing it’s to do with his private conversation with Jonas before everything got torn bloody. Kris used to accuse Isak of selfishness in the way friends joke but Isak feels fire in his blood now he knows the anger that was always so passive, always  _ “it’s just a comment, Isak _ ,” was real - more real than Isak could have known. 

“What about you?” Isak asks, accepting the tea Even points at, indicting it’s his, “what’s wrong?”

Even stirs around egg, sprinkles in some chilli. He’s quiet, leaning over to open the large window and let out steam, stirring the pan with passion, adding salt so Isak waits, albeit impatiently.

“I need Jonas,” he says, voice steady, like he’s concentrating on every syllable, “I can’t trust any of the others,” his eyes darting to Isak’s.

“Can I help?”

“I need a  _ mukta _ ,” Even mutters, “but you saw what happened. There’s no one that can stop it, not anymore.”

Isak’s head is throbbing with pain, hand grasping his mug of tea as he goes and finds space in his small dining room, plonking himself down at the wooden table. With Even in confusion, his own life tainted now knowing he died in a gruesome murder, with apparently cruel, cold angels overseeing operations happy to annihilate anyone -  _ jivas _ to  _ muktas _ \- in the click of a finger, Isak fees stranded.

He looks down at the plate Even places in front of him, eyes narrowing.

“What’s this?”

“It’s an English Breakfast,” Even smiles, “haven’t you ever eaten one?”

“No,” Isak scrunches up his face, “god, it’s making heart hurt just looking at it.”

Even laughs at that, cutting into a fat, sizzling sausage.

“It’s worth it,” he chuckles, “I was born in Sheffield so I’ve had my fair share of greasy cafe fry ups.”

“Sheffield?” Isak asks, curious peaked. He remembers the days of watching snooker with Kris,  _ The Crucible _ , Kris’s promises of their British holiday to Steel City, teasing Isak that he’ll take him to The Fat Cat and fatten him up with proper pie. 

“Yeah,” Even confirms, swallowing toast and beans, “you’ve been?”

Isak shakes his head, pokes at an egg. His appetite, whilst not large anyway, has completely died.

“How come you can speak Norwegian?” he asks, peering at Even from opposite the table.

“You hear me speaking Norwegian, I hear you speaking English,” Even explains, Isak flushing in embarrassment at forgetting, “however, I… er… I’ve been trying to learn some for real, since you got here.”

Isak smiles, managing a little egg, touched by the gesture as there’s no need for either of them need to learn each other’s languages. Isak despised English at Nissen, there’s no way he’d take the liberty to learn it now.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Even, but I can’t eat this much food. Not at 9.00am,” Isak groans, “thanks, though.”

“It’s fine,” Even says, still wolfing his down, “you’re exhausted, emotional, it’s no big deal.”

Isak purses his lips and sips at his tea as Even eats. He’s losing himself in his thoughts again, scared for the future: Even won’t tell him his secret, Jonas is gone, Eskild is not to be trusted and therefore neither is Noora, and  _ God?  _ God isn’t much better than her Angels, as far as Isak’s concerned. His stomach rumbles with the threat of sharp pain and Isak stands to attention, heart beating ferociously. 

“Isak?” Even asks, worried, Isak standing as still as he can as if silence and inaction will hold it off.

“Isak?” Even repeats, beginning to stand himself. Isak can’t feel any further movement. He’s wary, touching his midriff gently and Even’s eyes follow.

“The pain?”

“I thought I felt something,” Isak whispers, “but I shouldn’t, not after the reveal?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Even confesses, tired, face pink and heated from the steam of the kitchen, “I have my memory of my death but nothing of the reveal.”

“Tell me what’s bothering you,” Isak insists, “I want to help.”

Even licks his lips, holding back, but not because of a lack of trust in Isak - Isak can  _ feel  _ that Even trusts him - but he holds back anyway, starting to clear their plates and cutlery before making his way back into the open kitchen. Isak’s in half a mind to follow, to demand it, but the thought that he might be bothering Even in the way he used to bother Kris sticks like mud.

_ Look how that turned out _ , a cruel voice mocks,  _ he killed you for being a desperate, needy embarrassment _ .

He gets himself ready instead, rushing down the stairs, mind made up. If Even doesn’t want to confide in him he didn’t have to but Isak was as sure as hell he wouldn’t stand by idly while the Afterlife made them both miserable. 

“I’m heading out,” he waves to Even, quick on his feet to avoid questions, “I’ll find you later,” he swears, gone before Even can protest or persuade him into speaking, the bright blue door to the house slamming shut as Isak runs as fast as he can.  


*  


_ “SANA!” _

He screams it on the beach side where no one stands except him, the water and the pebbly front. The weather is different today. It’s not the light summer breeze as usual with just the perfect amount of sunshine and clouds and a soft sea wind: today the sun has left  _ Limbo _ and instead grey skies reign with a strong winds that Isak feels whipping through his hair with strength.

_ “SANA!” _

He’s sure it’s a mortal sin to be demanding to see her. Eskild, the most powerful angel on foot in the Afterlife avoided doing it at all costs but Isak’s not an angel, just a boy, a boy who has lost everything and the only things he’s found since losing everything have been heartache and misery. Just as he’s found joy, suffering’s never been far; the sudden loss of Jonas, Even’s detachment from him however slight it may be ( _ he woke up in Even’s arms, clammy and flushed pink _ ) it’s clear as day that something is weighing Even down to the point of secrecy.

Isak’s panting and ready to give up with a tantrum until an unmistakable rumbling begins, quiet, until the rolling waves of the sea begin to grow. Isak can hear his heartbeat in his ears, crazed, fear overtaking him as the waves grow to gigantic heights and the pebbly ground under his feet makes him wobble, the dimension he now calls home shaking. Isak’s breath is shot, gone, terrified as he’s sure he’s going to be stolen by those waves and thrashed against underwater rocks until the fleck of black appears, sizzling away as it grows and makes a woman.

“Isak,” she says, but it sounds like a warning, “you do not summon me.”

Isak’s fear wilts now the sea is no longer towering over him. When everything is lost, what is there to fear? Kris’s words begin to echo.

_ You can’t touch fear, you can’t smell it, or taste it, or hear it. You can’t see it. You can only feel it. It’s just a feeling, Isak _ .

_ Yes _ , Isak thinks,  _ it’s just a feeling, I can’t touch it _ . Yet, if he extends his arm just so, his fingertips will brush against the material clothing Sana’s left arm and the thought sends a dazzling, frightened thrill through him. 

“Why are you remembering his words, Isak?” Sana demands to know, pretty with fury, “he is not a man to take advice from.”

“No,” Isak agrees, “but not everything is black and white, right?”

Sana throws a hand at him and Isak flinches but feels no slap; they’re thrown to a new reality, sat on soft white air, Isak would say, it feeling so light and baby blue for miles. It could be the illusion of the sky but Isak has more important things to consider than his whereabouts, tired of the constant new environments he finds himself in. Sana is sat, high, hands resting on the cloudlike chair beneath her, striking in her all black ensemble. 

“What?” she asks, voice hurting Isak’s ear drums with the cutting edge she has.

“I have a feeling,” Isak starts, rather embarrassed, “that I know you.”

“You don’t,” Sana assures him, “is that all?” she holds her hand, ready to send him flying back to Limbo.

“No!” Isak pleads, “it’s not - I just have these little thoughts, that come to me, and they make no sense…”

Being near Sana is like being near a Cobra; Isak is in awe of the power that she emits but he’s also petrified knowing she could strike at any time if she feels a threat. His mind blanks except for the three thoughts that play over in his wild nightmares and vivid dreams play out.

_ 02:21am, Mjøsa, the woman with dark eyes. _

“I don’t have time to waste on one dead  _ jiva _ ,” Sana snaps him back to the moment, “spit it out, or I’m sending you straight back.”

“We need Jonas,” Isak blurts, body aching as he remembers the way Jonas disintegrated, all those memories and that knowledge and his soul falling to ash in front of them, “please, send him back.”

“What makes you think that’s even possible?” Sana narrows her eyes, neck stretched out elegantly.

“You can surely do it,” Isak implores, eyes sore from the bright light of Sana’s aura. Sana is unreadable but it does make Isak wonder why she doesn’t smite him if he’s such a burden to her and the others: as she’s made clear, he’s nothing at all, he may as well be a lost rose petal drifting pointlessly around Skøyenparken.

“You’re worried for Even,” she steals his thoughts, “it is not of your concern. You may make connections here but this is a temporary home. You will all enter  _ Moshkta _ . It cannot be avoided.”

Isak’s face must show his realisation, a new sense of loss blooming inside of him. Even, whilst chirpy and charming, has demons that Isak has seen in the eyes of his own Mother and Isak aches to kiss them away.

“Even has been here for one year,” Sana informs him, “he has repented for his sins on Earth, he has reviewed his actions, he has made progress. My Head of Reincarnation is keen to move him on and I have given my permission for it to take place.”

Isak shakes his head in feverish disagreement, the injustice of it making it impossible to look Sana in the eye. 

“This is not about making friends,” Sana patronises, “it’s the cycle of life and death.”

“Just, fuck you,” Isak mutters, stomach rumbling as he closes his eyes and waits for the oncoming punishment, wartorn and exhausted. He certainly isn’t expecting a short burst of laughter grabbing his attention, Sana breathtakingly pretty as her faces breaks into a sunny grin. Isak believes it’s only second to Even’s smile, when he’s on form, picking roses or letting his hand move across a blank sheet of paper, pencil held in a light grip. 

_ The woman with dark eyes. I know you. _

“Isak, I have - ” - Sana catches herself, holding back the words that she doesn’t want Isak to hear, shock on her face for a microsecond that she got comfortable enough to speak without thinking, “ - let’s meet Magnus,” she manages to pull it back, clicking them to a factory, glass floor beneath them. Isak looks down to see magic; universes created in air, men pulling apart their hands and breathing to life new stories, new beginnings. He looks around him, clumsily following Sana, women drawing portraits of new people and men with maps, deciding where someone’s new life will start. It’s a modern day industrial revolution, the roar of fire and coal replaced with chatter and digital beeps.

People clear the way for Sana and look at Isak in awe.

They reach a glass office with wide glass doors, Sana opening them like they belong to her. A fluffy haired blonde man, tall and broad with rimmed glasses stands before them, attention on a floating clipboard that is producing text as he speaks and a pen swirling on the paper of its own accord. Isak can still hear the beeping and pinging of new families, identities being created and signed off outside, the broad blonde man blinking at Sana and Isak in shock.

“Sana… Isak…” he gawps, glasses falling down his nose. His cream and navy pinstriped 1920s suit is well fitting, the pen stilling as he turns around. Isak’s shocked as the fluffy haired man steps to him with a grin and pulls him in for a warm, tight hug, Isak flushing with happiness at the comfort. He’s been lucky with Even’s carefree attitude to touches but it’s nice to know not everyone in this bizarre corner of the universe he’s found himself in is stone cold. The man pulls back from Isak, grinning, young and puppylike in his enthusiasm.

“Magnus Fossbakken,” Sana introduces, “this is Isak Valtersen.”

“Yes,” Magnus smiles, taking Isak’s hand and shaking it roughly, “hello. Welcome to  μετεμψύχωσις  Headquarters.”

Isak feels rude with his silence but Magnus speaks a language Isak doesn’t know, his grip tight but kind as he holds Isak’s hands in his. Sana waits patiently, eyeing up the room in front of her, Magnus’s magic everywhere. Magnus continues to gawp at Isak until Isak feels self conscious which must become evident as Magnus glides away, messy papers all over his desk and clipboards, clapping his hands together with a bang. 

“What can I do for you?”

“Magnus is Head of Reincarnation,” Sana explains, poised, “he has a wonderful new journey set up for Even. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.”

“No,” Magnus agrees, but his eyes dart in fear, “it’s, er… it’s just the natural way,” he gabbles, moving over to his clipboard, “I can conjure up the plans, if you wish?”

“Yea - ”

“ - No,” Sana interrupts, voice causing the table beside them to shake, “I’m doing this out of kindness but Isak, you are not entitled to know personal information about yourself or any other member of this dimension.”

Isak’s body slumps, a sulk clear on his face. Sana isn’t one of the men who, back in Oslo, often fell for Isak’s pouty prettiness: instead she shoots a glare of irritation and begins to leave. Isak offers an apologetic goodbye to Magnus who’s jumping from foot to foot, enthusiastic energy brimming and Isak’s tempted to ask Sana if he can remain with the well-dressed, eccentric Head of Department before he hears her voice.

“Isak,” she cries, “join me, or I’ll bring you to me.”

Isak blushes, embarrassed as workers begin to look at him, sniggering at his telling off but he scuttles away quickly, not wanting to be publicly reprimanded again.

“I advise you see Even and assure him. Magnus is a kind, intelligent  _ mukta _ , he ensures the next stage of the process is ideal for each  _ jiva _ ,” Sana instructs. She’s telling Isak as if he has a choice but all Isak hears is a demand, that he ought to soothe Even’s fears and toe the line she’s drawn.

“What about Jonas?” Isak asks, swallowing fear, “can he return?”

Sana sends him a furious scowl, making the hair on his neck prick to attention.

“You should not concern yourself with _ mukta  _ business,” Sana advises with fierce eyes and a sharp, set tone. They’re walking back to the doors that welcomed them initially, Isak suffering from soft bouts of vertigo at the speed they change realities, from the sky to offices to back in Isak’s home, Isak sagging at his wooden, dining room table.

“Reassure Even,” Sana instructs, looking out of place in his small home with her singing aura large and bright despite her tiny stature, “and you will overcome your past, you will learn, and you will begin the  _ moshkta _ . Good evening.”

Isak’s words die on his tongue because she’s gone before he can ask or protest. He has previously considered if seasons exist in Limbo as evenings are drawn out like summer, sunlight only leaving after evening. If Even is to be reincarnated and his time here is done, that’s the end of Even and the beginning of a completely new life, new memories. Isak’s heart sinks, recalling Eskild’s words at the very beginning of this journey. 

_ The Samsara is not pleasant, it is difficult _ . 

Even’s  _ Atman _ will survive but Even will not, destined for the journey his soul is bound to take, ongoing, continuous, forever. Isak noses flares at the thought; Even has an easy confidence and plenty of charm but the woven insecurities that are printed on his heart make Isak concerned, not to mention - 

_ Even’s arm wrapped around his waist, thick lips on his hairline, lean but toned body, broad shoulders, keeping Isak wrapped up safe - _

“No,” Isak whispers to his wicked trail of thoughts, “not the time.”

He finds washing up in his sink, grumbling inwards, always hating this particular domestic task. Kris refused to buy a dishwasher despite his generous salary and Isak earnt nothing due to his student status so could never afford household items. His brain taunts him now, remembering his resentful sulks and Kris making barbed comments about Isak’s lazy, gold-digging ways. 

“ _ I pay the rent, you should do as you’re told _ ,” his memories bring the conversations back to life, Isak frozen in horror now he knows the terrifying truth about the man he thought he loved.

“No,” Isak begs his mind quietly, “I can’t.” 

He refuses to think of the man again, not tonight, when he’s drained from the many journeys Sana took him on and heavy from the toll of considering Even’s next step, Jonas’s fate. He takes a shaky, deep breath before blasting on the running hot water, filling his sink with it and beginning his task of cleaning the pots and pans from breakfast. Even being from Sheffield was yet another pull to a life Isak didn’t want to remember yet the idea of all his ties to his past life fading forever fills him with a dread he can’t explain.

When he eventually climbs into bed it’s dark and the birds have gone to sleep, just the faint sound of the sea whurring and moving peacefully and he can smell Even on his pillows, his heart aching.  


*  


_ 02:21am, Mjøsa, the woman with dark eyes. _

_ 02:21am, Mjøsa, the woman with dark eyes. _

Isak is drenched in sweat, sat on the last step of his stairs, hands grasping his bannister and the frame of his bathroom, breath in short, deep bursts.

_ 02:21am, Mjøsa, the woman with dark eyes. _

_ 02:21am, Mjøsa, the woman with dark eyes. _

“02:21am, Mjøsa, the woman with dark eyes,” he repeats, panting, from his mind, afraid of forgetting, “02:21am, Mjøsa, the woman with dark eyes.”

  
*

  
He runs to Even’s when sunlight breaks through, guilt vague but undeniable after running out on him yesterday. The idea of losing Even before he even had him sits heavy on his chest but for right now, Even is here. Isak wraps his knuckles against the door to Even’s town house, bouncing on the back of his heels as he waits for Even to open the door which he eventually does, bed hair wild, eyes squinting and his aura vast and pretty, all those colours catching as the sunlight beams down on them.

“You’ve not come to make breakfast?” Even asks, standing aside to let Isak in, Isak scowling over his shoulder before realising it’s a joke.

“That could be your Heaven hobby,” Even suggests as they make their way to his room, throwing himself onto one of the large bean bags after they’ve ascended to the top floor, “cooking, hmm?”

Isak rolls his eyes, flopping down beside Even with back rested against the beanbag and head able to lean back close to Even’s arm. He twiddles nervously with a thread from his hoody, undone at his wrist, Even practically blinding him as he wipes a few curls out of Isak’s eye.

“Where’ve you been?” 

Isak stretches back easily, Even a touch higher than him. Isak was destroyed the night Even fell asleep in his bed, can’t remember much yet he’s sure Even stroked the back of his hair at one point, can vaguely recall feeling peaceful and sleepy as something soothed him.

He contemplates lying but decides there’s no need for him to have secrets, not anymore.

“I went to meet someone called Magnus,” he explains, “he’s got a Gatsby vibe going on. Sends us back to earth.”

Even doesn’t react apart from his eyeline slipping away from Isak, flicking his long lashes down at the floor. 

“I thought you were looking forward to a new life?” Isak queries, eager to boost Even’s spirits. The idea of Even leaving him, lost and lonely, makes his chest constrict but Even deserves a new chance after serving his time in  _ Jannah _ and paying his dues. The older boy is stunning in the morning light, side profile elegant, like a painting, a painting that blinks and breathes and Isak realises he’s staring hungrily when Even meets his eyes again. It’s a slow movement, Even’s hand creeping up, gently running his thumb over Isak’s parted lips.

“I’ve just started my new life,” Even says sternly but with gentleness in his eyes, “I don’t want to leave, not anymore.”

Isak daren’t move, like a frightened deer, Even’s thumb featherlight on Isak’s mouth before he trails down, fingertips exploring Isak’s neck and -

_ the tight grip, squeezing, slammed against cold, grey brick as he forced  _ -

Isak lashes out in a panic, light zooming out of his fingertips and throwing Even’s body against his bedroom wall, Even doubling over after smacking into it.

“Oh, shit!” Isak pants, “I didn’t - I have no idea what that was, oh my god, Even,” he pleads, rushing over, Even grunting in mild pain as he attempts to stand, supported by his large windowsill and Isak’s sorry hands.

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have,” Even protests, suppressing a yell as his back cracks back into place.

“No!” Isak says, more forcefully, Even’s eyebrows raised at the tone of his voice, demanding, “look, it’s ok,” Isak insists, taking Even’s hand and placing it back on his neck. The feeling makes him shiver with anticipation, the fighting forces of fear and hope for what could be battling with each other. Even winces in pain but his body repairs quickly, his aura working quick to ensure it is so until he can stand again, as steady and still as a mighty oak tree. He begins to softly trace Isak’s neck as Isak’s breath returns to normal instead of a fired up pant. Happiness is making him feel dozy, steadying himself with a hand to the broad chest in front of him as gentle fingertips play so light and comforting across Isak’s skin.

“Are you ok?” Isak manages to ask, the pair of them happily trapped together as if partaking in the slowest dance. Even nods, the corner of his mouth turning up, hand moving to cup Isak’s jaw as he bends down, careful. Isak’s grateful that they’ve got the balance just right, feeling his heart bounce in his ribcage as Even masters control of each movement, snaking down to his mouth when Isak’s memory blasts the perfect moment to shreds.

_ Kris’s teeth, harsh lips on his. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? _

“Isak,” Even frowns, dangerously close, “tell me.”

“It’s - ” Isak starts, desperate to keep his sobs under wraps, hot tears escaping, “ - it’s just that, um - I wish this was my first kiss.”

Even removes the rebellious tears from Isak’s flushed face with his spare hand, calm as he does so, shaking his head at that reasoning.

“That wasn’t a kiss,” Even argues with a whisper, “he  _ did _ that to you. Isak, that wasn’t a kiss,” he repeats, more insistently this time, locking their eyes together, “ _ this _ is your first kiss.”

Their lips meet in the gentlest of ways, Even still cupping his face softly before parting Isak’s lips further with his tongue and Isak mirrors his movements by grappling with the back of Even’s neck as they press close before Even’s lips leave, nose against nose as Isak gasps in wonder. His eyes flutter shut and he clings to Even, in awe of how it feels to be wanted in the same way that he wants, to be chosen.  


*  


A day spent up Rose Hill is not a waste, Isak finds, even if his new found love for flowers might be something to do with the boy he’s with, a walking encyclopaedia of rose knowledge. The pretty maze at the top of his hill with its neat flower beds is peaceful, idyllic and Isak’s heart sings each time Even stops and gracefully beheads a new rose, insistent on making Isak a flower crown. Their hands locked together, Even will regularly stop when he sees a particularly blooming rose until he has a decent handful.

“Right,” he begins, smile unstoppable, “here we go.”

Isak stands like a hopeful beauty pageant contestant, watching as Even entwines the flowers to make a neat crown, pink and lilac roses locked together before he looms over Isak’s head, tying it in a neat knot at the back.

“Beautiful,” Even insists, Isak’s face cracking with glee and embarrassment at his fawning before they leave and make their way to  _ The Library _ , not without a few odd glances from fellow Limbo Land residents.

“They’re just jealous, none of them could rock this flower crown like you do,” Even jokes, adjusting the slightly undone crown as they get cosy by the log fire. Isak feels a sharp pang of sadness as he recalls their last time here, with Jonas by their side: everytime he closes his eyes he can see those damned black flecks of nothing, a mighty angel sentenced to damnation. Even’s worry radiates off him, his aura blurring, before he runs his thumb over the back of Isak’s hand.

“Hey,” he reminds Isak. Isak wants to be here, with Even, but the guilt inside whenever it rears its head feels as gutting and devastating as the internal pains he’s suffered recently.

“It’s my fault that they took him,” Isak whispers, beer tasting flat on his tongue, “he was good, and now he isn’t here.”

Even doesn’t speak, keeping rubbing Isak’s hand in a comforting gesture when the gold light they didn’t speak about - the light that shone out of Isak as he panicked and threw Even aside after Even touched his neck - glows in the middle of Isak’s palm. Even inspects it over, confused as Isak looks on in amazement at this swirling dot of gold, numbing his hand.

“Woah” Even mutters, fingers dancing over it, “it could be an Afterlife power, like your aura. I’ve never seen this on someone before.”

Isak curls his fingers around it, shy, but Even prizes them back open.

“We all have things that mark us as different,” Even insists, sneaking a kiss to Isak’s cheek, “don’t be ashamed."   


They drink in peace and the energy between them soars; if it wasn’t bad enough from their sneaked glances and giggles they can physically feel see it, Even’s aura glowing with the opal colours strong and the gold swirling circle in Isak’s palm throbbing warmly. Isak’s aware of those looking, his Afterlife abilities developing as he picks up on little thoughts,  _ how cute, young love _ . He bristles at that, a fantastical pressure already being placed upon them not an added thing he wants but it’s easy to tune out the whurr of noise around them, his eyes constantly drawn back to Even’s and the happy purr he feels as their eyes meet is undeniable.

As the afternoon settles into evening and the sun isn’t as high as she once was they meander back down from  _ The Library _ . The hill is high, smooth but cobbled at you get further down, Isak holding out a tipsy hand to Even who laughs at him quizzically.

“What?”

Isak sways at the top of the hill, holds his arms out.

“Bet Jonas used to love skating down this hill,” he laughs, “bet he’d love to see me try it…”

Tears of regret fall before he can get himself together, the beer making him less inhibited.

“Isak,” Even frowns sadly, “it wasn’t your fault.”

Isak sniffs, hiccupping from the fizz of the beer and his tears, letting Even wipe them away. He nods, agreeing in theory with Even but he can’t shake Eskild’s words or Jonas’s eyes as he realised what was happening.

“Come on,” Even encourages, taking him by the hand, “let me tuck you in.”   


Isak warms at that but it’s become a ritual, a welcome one, innocent with a hint of lust. Even does indeed tuck him into bed, plays with his hair, old memories of Kris comforting him like that fading as now he has new ones with Even, real ones. Isak never sleeps all the way through, often waking up to invasive thoughts or nightmares but he falls asleep safe, Even’s hands protective and loving.

Protective and loving may begin his sleep, but it never ends that way.

Isak wakes with tears spilt on his cheeks, panting like he’s been running the Oslo Marathon, t-shirt stuck to his skin in sweat. He whimpers as he races up and slams on the lights as if artificial light can kill the demons in his room.

_ “You know how special you are to me, Issy.” _

He slams his hands on the wall in agony, fresh tears marching down his cheek and landing on his neck making him itchy and irritated. He wants to fight, to hurt Kris the way he was hurt but all he can feel is his heart split into two, turning back to the wall and falling to the floor in fits of sobs. 

“I hate you,” Isak wails into the silent bedroom, flashes of bright eyes and smirks and those hands Isak had lusted after for so long making him tear at his hair as if he could dig deep enough to claw his memories out of his mind. He yelps as brilliant white light blinds him, reflex making his arm jerk out, eyes squinting as the growing gold swirl in his palm fires out.

“Isak!” he hears a familiar yell, seeing Noora fighting back, pink fire spinning out of her hand to fight his, wild surprise on her face as they battle with their arms and hands outstretched. It’s Isak who gives in first, lowering his hand as he stares up at her, Noora tiptoeing closer.

“How on Earth have you got the gold circle?” she whispers.

“It just appeared,” Isak explains, shaky as his sweat subside and now the coolness sets.

“I came to see if I could assist with your nightmare,” Noora says, changing topic and adjusting her posture.

“Why would I want help from you?” Isak sneers, wiping his face. Noora’s been a soldier of the Higher Order ever since he met her; clinical and repressed. She stood aside as Jonas was taken by her fellow so-called Angel. He waits for the barbed wire response or for her to work her black magic, taking away his anger and making him docile but it’s Isak turn for surprise when Noora moves to sit on his bed, shame evident on her beautiful face. 

“What’s happened since you arrive isn’t normal,” Noora begins, eyes scanning around the room for demons of her own, “and - well -  I miss Jonas.”

Silence stretches, Isak feeling heavy with grief as he recalls the panic in Jonas’s eyes before he started to wither away, piece by piece. 

“So,” Noora adds, Isak noticing how her grip on his bedsheets is so tight her knuckles are white, “I thought I may break the rules, too.”

They clock each other, a mischievous agreement acknowledged as Isak finds his feet once more. Noora’s nervous, breath coming faster and audible rather than her usual poised approach but Isak likes it, sees a human element to her rather than the robotic, oppressive stance she usually takes.

“Are you ready to go back to Earth?” she asks, eyes wide. Isak nods and before he’s finished she’s clicked them, they’re in a light corridor. One of the overhead lights crackles and flickers and Noora laughs.

“ _ Supernatural _ , huh?” she jokes, but Isak knows where they are, knows Kris is here in custody and his stomach rolls with unease.

“Right,” she murmurs, joking falling flat, “down here.”

He follows her as they get to the cell door, large and metal, the gossip and busyness of the station drowned out by Isak’s heartbeat ringing in his ears. He places his hand on the door, feels something powerful go through him and stick to the door, his hand shaking.

“Will he see me?” he asks Noora, suddenly terrified but quickly reassured by the soft shake of her head. 

“I’ll wait,” she insists, ducking her chin into her chest and her aura begins to sing, bristling opal and gold.

_ Bēgu dienu, bēgu nakti, Laimas likta neizbēgu;, Kādu mūžu Laima lika, Tāds bij man dzīvojot _ .

Isak’s pushed into the holding cell, backing up like a wet cat as Kris sits there, book in hands. He looks comfortable, legs crossed on his single bed, if a little weightier than Isak remembers. At least he didn’t manage to sneak his way out of this and get bail, Isak thinks, satisfied. Kris had money; a well paid job and wealthy parents but a murder charge would cost serious Krone if they were to bail out their precious boy. Isak liked to think Kris's parents  wouldn’t disrespect his memory that blatantly either, having always fussed over him whenever they invited themselves over for  Kjøttkakesaus and copious bottles of red wine.

The light in the cell begins to crackle and Isak tries to stand as still as he can, remembering Noora’s conclusion of their supernatural presence causing lights to flicker. It makes Kris look up too and Isak is angry to see he looks well - heavier, rounder - but good for it, clean shaved and fresh, like he’s on a retreat.

_ Feelings are just feelings _ , Kris had told him, and Isak had lapped it up, worshipped what he saw as Kris’s never-ending wisdom. Now, Isak sees the patronising bullshit for what it is, his hand begins to itch. He looks down to see his newfound constant, the spinning circle in the middle of his palm, awake and spitting. He isn’t sure what he expects to happen as he raises his arm, attempting to straighten it, shaking like a leaf in a storm but he focuses, aims his palm at the man sat opposite him. 

“Kris,” he whispers experimentally, “Kris?”

The light is pulled out of him as a frightening speed and Isak’s disappointed as the gold rush hits Kris, to no response, until he suddenly drops his book, clutching his side in pain. 

_ Good. _

Isak channels it all, the fear and the anger and the unfairness he’s feeling, forcing his palm still and the energy he’s sending out in spits and crackles to continue burning into his former friend. Betraying voices and memories try to sneak up on him, remind him of the days he’d spend on Kris’s chest, how Kris helped him with English homework, how Kris  _ did _ love him but he rubbishes them, focusing. Those memories exist but the only one he needs to know is the one in which Kris squeezes the last bit of oxygen out of his lungs with those murderous hands.

Kris yelps, clearly suffering, attempting to move off his bed but forced to sit down as Isak concentrates on attacking his side, enjoying the agonised whimpers that pathetically fall from his mouth.

“Please,” Kris begs, “I’m sorry,” he cries, finally appearing to be broken, the way Isak expects. It makes Isak drop his hand immediately, not enjoying seeing someone in pain because of his own doing. He thought it would satisfy him and it did, temporarily, but seeing Kris shaking, clutching his side, gasping, shames Isak. He looks down at his own hand in horror, wondering if there’s much difference between his actions and Kris’s: they were both angry and both lost control.

“I’m going mad,” Kris whispers, eyes on the ceiling as he whimpers, tears falling, “God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Isak flees, not wanting to spend a second longer in that cooped up prison and he bangs into Noora as he travels through the heavy locked door. She’s brought out of her trance and grasps Isak’s arm with strong hands, pulling him to her, conviction on her face like Isak’s never seen before.

“Isak,” she says, excited, “you did it.”

“What?” Isak asks, upset and bewildered,

“That was  _ progress _ ,” Noora insists, “you’re nothing like him.”

Her lack of encouragement up until now makes her words even sweeter. He can tell she’s still concerned by his newfound golden power, eyes flickering to it at every opportunity but she agrees with his clear, instant thought:  _ please get us out of here _ . It’s dusk, Noora smoothing her hair down as Isak throws his snapback onto the floor now he’s home.

“A successful day,” she muses, “I’ll be taking my leave. Do you require anything further?”

“You could work on a way to get Jonas back home, and keep Even here,” he suggests wickedly, knowing she’ll bristle, which she does but she also looks hurt, eyebrows close together.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, but before Isak can retort she’s dust.   


*  


Isak knows he needs to make an effort in building his life here, make friends with his neighbours and find hobbies as Even’s suggested but the oncoming threat of Even’s departure is taking up his focus. They both hold back beyond shy hand holding around the town squares and the occasional kiss, their kisses more heated and needy behind closed doors, breaking off before anything can develop.

Isak wants to,  _ oh god _ , how he wants. He’s never felt anything like it, when Even has backed him into his dining room, Isak giddy and giggly before he’s sat upon his wooden table, legs akimbo as Even settles in-between his thighs, hands exploring confidently and tongue moving in unison with Isak’s. Isak will grasp that abundance of dark gold hair, letting whimpers and pants drip out of his mouth, Even steady, a driving force to be reckoned with as he takes Isak up to the point where they both break off with wet mouths and desperate hands.

It’s a sweet routine, Isak supposes, but they’ll have tea after that, beer if they’re lucky, and Even will see Isak to bed. He falls asleep with Even’s hand stroking his hair, often telling him stories about his life before and Isak dreams of grassy hilltops in England and lonely school corridors interspersed with his own bizarre thoughts.

_ 02:21am, Mjøsa, the woman with dark eyes. _

Even’s teaching him how hands can be used lovingly.

Isak dreams of loneliness, of empty roads and cafes and parks which is only reinforced this morning when he finds Even looking lost as they meet by the arch. 

“Hey,” Isak greets, Even still smiling despite his aura quiet and dull, pulling Isak in for a morning kiss.

“Hello,” he smiles, adjusting Isak’s snapback so he can free a few curls, making Isak screw his face up sweetly.

“Everything ok?”

They begin to walk over to the pebbly beach, Isak squashing the nasty thought that creeps up on him and reminds him how empty his life will be once Even is gone. Even reaches into the inside of his denim jacket and produces an open letter, envelope torn, passing it to Isak and waits patiently as Isak fishes for the paper, reading fast.

_ Even, _

_ You will be reincarnated on 23rd September 2017. If you have any business left in the Afterlife please settle it immediately as it cannot be done once you have began the next stage of the Samsara.  _

_ You will be fetched by Eskild Tryggvason at 09.00am on 23rd September 2017 to guide you through the process. _

_ We wish you all the best in your future endeavours and will no doubt meet again in time. _

_ Warm regards _

Isak has a good mind to tear it up, seeing the evidence in black ink before him, making it real. Even slides it back into his inline pocket as they walk in contemplative quiet, touched as Even brushes against his fingers and takes his hand, a habit that’s becomes comfy and something Isak looks forward to whenever they’re together. He never had a hand to hold before Even and whilst it’s a simple gesture their fingers loosely connected represents a connection.  _ People need people _ .

They have three days and all hope is dead.

Time slips into the afternoon and they’re back in the rose garden, Isak lying in Even’s arms as Even continues to teach him.

“There’s 100 different species of roses, did you know that? The colour changes depending on the species, but, you’ll never see a blue rose or a black rose. They don’t exist. Roses are really old, too, there’s evidence they existed up to 35 million years ago. 35 million years, baby. They live forever, too. A rose can live for over 1000 years.”

Isak is listening, content, fingers pulling at a rose stem but mostly he’s in a fantasy where they stay like this forever, mornings spent baking and cooking before long walks, afternoon naps, and maybe if Even could stay… their evenings would change. Maybe, they’d take baths together, and Isak would kiss Even like he does, but Even would explore his skin further than he does now, finally touching Isak in all the places Isak dreams of him touching.   


“Minx,” Even mutters, rubbing a kiss on his forehead.

“Huh?!” Isak asks, shocked, Even blinking lazily, the sun making him look sleepy, “I can read your thoughts, kinda. In a hazy, roundabout way. You know that?”

“Oh,” Isak flushes, face flaring fast, “no…”

“Anyway,” Even continues, kissing beside Isak’s eye, “at least we’ve had this.”

He pushes up and away, roughly grabbing a red rose from it’s bed, snapping it at the root, coming back to dangle it over Isak’s face and tickle him with its soft petals, Isak pushing it away with a squeal.

“Maybe - maybe we should spend the night together, before you go,” Isak suggests, as red as the rose on his face. It doesn’t help that Even’s leaning down staring intensely at him, Isak avoiding his eyes at all costs, melting as Even plants a kiss on his lips.

“I’d love that,” Even whispers.

Sex is something Isak’s craved for a while now, sought out, but Kris had been the gatekeeper to his sexual adventures and he never let Isak experiment. Isak was flattered, convinced it meant Kris was just waiting for the perfect moment, so he could be the first man inside Isak. Isak knows now it was homophobic, possessive rage that denied him the experience he could have had. Still, there’s no one better than Even at this, Isak would bet his every life, this one and the next thousand lives on it. Even means what he does. As night settles and they go to bed but this time, Even lies beside him. Careful hands take off Isak’s clothes but demanding lips claim him, again and again and again, Isak shaking from it. He watches, captivated, as Even slicks himself up and he surrenders to the way Even’s fingers open him.

“ _ Du er perfekt _ ,” Isak hears, stuttering as Even begins to stretch him and he clings like a drowning boy to Even’s shoulders, panting and writhing in time with Even’s thrusts. Isak’s never known a pleasure like it, tears flowing as he’s overwhelmed, kissing Even desperately as they fight to get their breath back in a tangled, blissful, sweaty embrace. 

“We’ll meet in another life,” Even promises, time lost as they cuddle, peck, Isak comfy in Even’s arms.

“I want to keep  _ this _ life,” Isak whispers back, eyes giving in to sleep, sated but not satisfied.  
  


*  


It’s all a performance. Eskild could snap Even to him in a millisecond but the act of walking to the town hall when his office resides gives the  _ jiva _ a pseudo sense of control. Even’s slow, holding Isak’s hand and Isak’s glad of it, keeping his raging emotions locked down even if the gold swirl in his hand seems to buzz angrily, flashes of light here and there making Isak jump.

“Have you asked Noora about that?” Even quizzes, reaching with his free hand to check it. It’s not unpleasant, just odd, gold and squidgy and thrumming with energy. Isak shrugs in response.

“What, a random gaping gold hole in the middle of my palm? Just one of those Afterlife things,” Isak quips, Even scoffing.

“Just want you to look after yourself,” he says as they corner the corner of pretty balconies before they reach it, a beautiful neoclassical building fit for an Apprentice of Heaven. Isak was lost the day he walked out those large, engraved doors, Noora by his side and whilst  _ Limbo _ makes his head ache he’s more sure of what he wants than ever.

Even’s more polite than Isak, stopping to knock as they make their way through the grand entrance and to Eskild’s office.

“It’s ok,” Even shushes Isak, sensing his irritation, “I’m so glad we met, Isak.”

Isak’s heart drops, clouded in bittersweet emotion, the large oakwood doors opening.

“Good morning!” Eskild smiles, taking his feet off the desk, “coffee? Tea?”

Isak clings onto Even’s hand and stares hatefully at the handsome Apprentice. He can feel something, something important, between he and Even and it’s as natural as a river, as powerful as one; never ending, breathtaking, two lonely souls who found each other in this wild world only to be ripped apart.

“Isak,” Eskild says, weary, “I think it’s best for both of you if you go home now.”

“Home?” Isak asks, “where’s that?”

Even lets go of Isak’s hand, moving so that he’s blocking Eskild from view, even if the Angel’s aura twinkles around Even, making Even more appealing than usual. Even smiles and brushes Isak’s cheeks, his lips, with hands that Isak could swear have healed parts of him. With Isak’s face still in this soft hold he kisses him but Isak’s not in the mood for gentleness, kissing back desperately until Even has to hold him down, break the last kiss.

“I’ll miss you,” Even says, as quiet as a man can be without whispering, “please, Isak, be good.”

Isak whimpers at that, trying to edge for another kiss as their foreheads lock together, but Even dodges him, placing one last kiss just under his nose for good measure and stepping away. 

“I’m good for tea,” Even replies to Eskild’s initial question, “can we just get on with this?”

“Your boy needs to leave, then,” Eskild says, more frustrated than unkind, “you’ve had your goodbyes.”

Isak feels something inside him that he’s never felt before like he’s host to some unpredictable force, forcing him upright, perfectly, like how Noora holds herself. Eskild’s eyes flicker to him and Isak can see a hint of fear there. His palm throbs, the gold inside of it beginning to spill out in streams of light, forcing Eskild to stand.

“That’s - ” Eskild begins, but he thinks better of expanding on it. Even whips round to Isak, seeing him stood, stubborn, the rays of light from his palm now strong and steady like a sword he could swing at any moment.

“Isak, please,” Even begs, “you’re going to get yourself hurt.”

The office shakes, all boys thrown slightly but not off their feet before the beautiful song that follows Sana around begins to play, blinding them temporarily with her grace.

If Sana is here then that gold Isak holds in his hand is expensive, he realises with vindication.

With Sana comes Noora, Magnus and some Angels Isak hasn’t seen before, scattered around Eskild’s generously sized office, a meeting of minds or a meeting of monsters. Isak isn’t sure if they come in peace or for a war but he has something on his side. He smiles at Sana, her aura loud and unpleasant at this stand-off, the language Isak doesn’t know sounding a lot less beautiful than normal.

“Isak,” Eskild isn’t the person he expects to hear first, “Isak, please let that drop. Don’t.”

He’s softer than Isak’s heard before and there’s something about his eyes that Isak trusts, despite himself, then he remembers the way Jonas blinked in terror before his existence was wiped out of the universe. 

_ For you, too. He’s gone because of you.  _

The guilty anger flares up and makes Isak only more sure that he will wage this unknown power if he must, the gold brighter as it tunes in with his thoughts. Isak feels a pull to the faces he can see around him, false memories, which he shakes out, needing to focus. He isn’t watching Sana, attention taken by the Angels scattered across the room, all different songs being whispered by auras, the tense atmosphere making Isak’s stomach roll but the anger he’s driving on won’t allow anything to push through. 

Sana raises her hand and Isak catches it; the same swirl of gold in her palm as his. She has better control, the light beams screaming out of her as she rounds on Isak. 

Isak doesn’t know how to fight, let alone a God, but if this is her strongest weapon then they’re on equal footing. 

“No,” one of the voices of the many people stood, waiting, breaks out, Isak watching as the Gatsby dressed  _ mukta _ steps in, closer to both Sana and Isak. He looks shocked himself that he’s speaking out but he does nonetheless, the energy crackling through the entire Hall making Isak wonder if it’s going to come crashing down around them to make pretty rubble.

“Sana,” the  _ mukta _ begs, head tilting, voice shaking. Sana’s eyes are full of fury.

_ The woman with the dark eyes. _

She cracks for the smallest of seconds, something human that bleeds through, face crumpling and Isak spots tears where there shouldn’t be any. 

“Ok,” she gasps, taking a leap to Isak, the beaming gold replaced with white and she slaps her hand to his head, everything zapped to black.  


*  


_ Hello? _

If death was water, flailing around in an empty ocean, then Isak isn’t sure what this is. He’s up high, he can feel that, and if he were to guess the soft floor beneath him is a cloud due to the interspersed blue he can see amongst the fluffy whiteness, reminding him of Sana’s last expedition with him. 

“Hello?” Isak shouts, only seeing miles of white and blue, no other single soul.

“Isak,” he hears, an already made Sana on the opposite side to him. They walk to each other slowly, Isak’s mind buzzing but on the defensive, checking her for any oncoming slaughter but her eyes are miserable.

“What happened?” Isak asks, panic filling him, “where’s everyone? Even?”

“I thought this could work,” Sana says, nodding sagely, “and it didn’t. For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

Isak cannot do more than listen. He is enslaved to Sana and her all-knowing eyes, ignorant.

“You’re the woman with the dark eyes in that list I keep hearing and seeing,” Isak tells her, sure of it, “02.21am was the time I died. But, Mjøsa? The lake? I don’t know what that means.”

Sana is torn, Isak can feel it in her radiating aura alongside a thrum of hopelessness. Her face carries the look of a woman who knows it’s over.

“Mjøsa is where you’re from,” she says, eyes glistening, “from a long, long time ago.”  


*  
  
_ The large farm was packed with animals and men with furs wrapped around their shoulders, furious faces and black, crooked teeth. The smell of the forest, not far from camp, full of enormous elm and oaks trees, green and vibrant is fresh, heady. The click of iron, men carving new weapons, sizzle of fire as metal is hammered into dangerous shapes and the unforgiving cold, hurried along by freezing lakes where men fished for food.  _

It flashes through Isak’s mind as Sana presses her palm to him, taking him from Mjøsa through the ages, his memories come back to him: Art in Nagoya, war in Cisplatina, study in Herat and Zaranj. He watches, in his mind, how he had risen through _ Jannah _ and enjoyed the lavish presentation of being assigned  _ mukta _ status until time had passed and a new God must reign. He saw as the Kingdom was passed to both of them and how they ruled for a thousand years. Each memory is rich and clear and Isak clings to them as they come back home until Sana’s hand drops, gasping with the effort of transferring so much energy.

Isak is lost for words but with newfound knowledge of who he is, he doesn’t need to speak to Sana: their minds are one.

“I’m sorry I took it from you,” she weeps, stuttering, “but I had to, plus, we all voted.”

Isak’s still silent, speechless as he feels all those thousands of years come back to him, flooding him, shell-shocked as his aura returns.

“Well, not all of us,” she admits solemnly, looking out over nothing, “Jonas voted against it.”

Isak can smile at that. His memories of Jonas are pure and uncomplicated; two friends building a new world, a respite for  _ jivas _ , a place for progress and peace before the Samsara must keep turning as it always has, always did. He remembers how Jonas would sneak off from Afterlife briefings which Sana ran (Isak much less interested in the administrative side of things) so he could go and join Vladimir Lenin’s University protests as a silent fan, awestruck.

“Is he really gone?” Isak asks, welling up, the anger of a God curling through him and making his aura scream before he quietens it quickly.

Sana holds out her hand, gold circle swirling.

“I don’t know,” she swallows nervously, “but we could try this.”

Isak joins their hands, two immortal souls, the Highest Orders, a power greater than any other. A chant leaves his mouth that Isak doesn’t know but he surrenders to it, Sana’s Arabic matching his Norwegian as the gold swirl leaves their hands and becomes a fiery ball of flames, unable to burn either of them. The sheer energy is frightening and Isak feels his hand begin to shake with the effort of keeping it alive, pushing through, uncaring for comfort until it bursts and sends both Angels flying with the force of a bomb. 

“Shit,” Isak mutters as he twists back upwards. He spots Sana looking, waiting, seeing if their joint power and prayer was enough but the crackling energy exploded and Isak sees nothing. 

_ Until  _ \- the smallest black fleck - jumping in the air - two, and three - and it grows, a swarm of them building, fast, Isak impatient as he watches they come together and create him, Jonas’s curls the last thing to come back to life.

Isak jumps on him, pulling him close, Jonas stiff as he finds movement again.

“Issy,” he smiles, “you’re back. Like, you’re  _ back _ back.”

Isak refuses to let go, face pressed into Jonas’s neck as he holds on, breathing in his scent. He feels Sana approach and laughs as Jonas smugly informs her, “told you it wouldn’t work. Isak’s too stubborn to go from God to mortal.”

Jonas wrestles Isak off him, holding him at bay, grinning and once again Isak is lost for words. They study each other lovingly, one of the oldest, purest forms of love: brotherly friendship. Isak sees everything play out of Jonas’s mind, too, the days they first met, their arguments, the long evenings Jonas spent in depressive rebellion after it was decided Isak must be overthrown.

“Hey,” Jonas suddenly remembers, “where’s his man, huh? You better not have sent him back to Earth.”

Isak looks to Sana who shrugs noncommittally. 

“This was the problem, wasn’t it?” she asks coolly, “Isak’s selfishness and little regard for the actual processes we must implement for Samsara to work, for human progress. We can’t just ignore it and do as we please.”

“Sana,” Isak steps to her, sure as steel, “you’re right. I saw it everything. I was selfish and I didn’t respect you or this office.”

Sana sways, uncomfortable and Isak can see she’s scarred from this as well as the flashbacks filling his mind which remind him of how selfish he was back then, forcing her and the others to come to the conclusion he’s best off rejoining the  _ Samsara _ . 

“Sana,” Jonas insists,“he was fucking  _ murdered _ , Sana. That’s what happens when you send Issy out all alone. Let him have his boyfriend.”

“This isn’t a game,” Sana sighs, eyes closing, “there has to be rules.”

Isak hasn’t just missed Jonas since he joined the Afterlife, he realises now he’s missed him for years, ever since he was excommunicated and the twinkly, rebellious glint in Jonas’s eyes is something he’s loved for aeons. 

“What if we bonded?” Isak asks, remembering an age old practice of connected souls. Sana looks at him inquisitively and he feels Jonas bristle beside him.

“Woah, that’s deep,” Jonas says, eyebrows raised, “are you sure?”

“I remember everything,” Isak insists, “I can put everything together except this, him. I think he feels it too.”   


Jonas squeezes his arm in brotherly solidarity, grinning, as Sana contemplates an agreement. 

“It may be possible,” Sana softens, Jonas biting on his lip in glee. He grabs Isak and they run, excited boys, Isak faster than he’s ever been as he whips through time and space after Jonas. He can remember, can see their scrapping thousands of years before, their blossoming friendship over each new stage of  _ mukta _ acquisition. Isak leaps and grabs him, Jonas spinning with spider like Isak on his back as disapproving motherly eyes watch and wait.

“Best get off me,” Jonas gasps, “don’t want a jealous Even after me, huh?”

“You voted against the motion,” Isak murmurs, still clinging on, “you thought you could talk me round.”

He slides off his friend’s back, Jonas itching curly hair and shrugging, rather shy, “you weren’t bad, Isak. Maybe not ready for authority.”

“He just needed to take orders from me, which he always found too difficult,” Sana bit, making each Angel jump, not realising she had appeared by their sides, “let’s try it, then.”

Zapped back to the original torture chamber that is Eskild’s office, there’s commotion as Angels rush to Jonas and Isak, greeting them warmly. Isak’s aura is back and proud, the first person he rushes to is Eskild who dips his head sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, Isak,” he pleads, but Isak isn’t listening. He doesn’t need apologies from the Angel he held in such high regard previously, the next in line to be chosen to govern with Sana. He can see how hard Eskild’s worked all these years, how important it is to him that they run a smooth, successful operation and how Isak and Jonas have both jeopardised it on occasion. People aren’t perfect, they act with passion, they make choices that they regret and Eskild’s tearful regret of annihilating Jonas in panic, sure he was going to tell Isak the truth, is something Isak feels in his soul.

He can see all of it; their every thought, every memory.

“No, I should apologise,” Isak says as he draws back, “I am apologising. You would have been a better leader than me. It should be you and Sana, really.”

Eskild smirks at that, squeezing Isak’s hand.

“You got round Julian as always, you little saucepot,” Eskild tuts, smirking and Isak scoffs with amusement. It’s true, Julian Dahl, the previous  _ God _ , had a liking for Isak and initially chose him to rule as one before an uprising was threatened, Angels raging that Sana was being overlooked despite her natural leadership abilities. Isak has never craved authority, much happier to be led than to lead but he liked that someone _thought_ he'd be good at it, preening at Julian’s insistence he would be the perfect choice. 

Noora wanders over, smiling awkwardly. Isak returns it, their friendship a cool one due to Noora’s unwavering belief in Sana and her distaste for Isak being chosen before Eskild. They don’t need to speak, angel telepathy working soundly and Isak conveys his feelings of gratitude, friendship.

“I am glad you’re back,” Noora says at that and Isak smiles meekly.

“Me too,” he confesses, “and I promise this time I won’t be a brat, I’ll listen to you.”

Her eyebrow raises in disbelief but before he can sass her he feels an excited jolt in his heart, Even coming into view. He looks at Isak in amazement, eyes wide and mouth parted. The Angels drift off, allowing them privacy not before Sana nods her permission for the bonding to take place. Auras become silent as they leave and it’s just Isak, perched upon Eskild’s desk, and Even, stood with a hip jutting out confidently, eyeing Isak up.

“Well,” Even clears his throat, “you look seriously hot.”

“Oh, this?” Isak jokes, shaking his hair, playing with his godly aura so it shines and sparkles beautifully.

Isak can’t bear Even’s silence and he brings Even to him by force, diving in for a kiss when Even holds him back.

“Don’t use your power on me,” Even warns, eyes dark with lust, “I’ll take control when we’re together.”   


Isak feels his mouth dry, breath coming in soft pants and he nods his consent. Even lifts his face with his hands, pressing a kiss to seal the deal and watching with amusement as Isak wriggles, trying to get himself under control.

“So… did they tell you, about me?”

“Eskild did, yes,” Even nods, “nice. I fucked God last night.”

“Shut up,” Isak scoffs, before giggling, “but yeah, you did.”

“Sana says we can bond,” he looks at Even hopefully, “it would keep you here forever, with me.”

The large grandfather clock in Eskild office ticks tauntingly loud as they stand holding hands, reading each other. Isak could use his abilities to mindread but Even’s clear expectation that Isak won’t be using any of his otherwordly power on him stands, so he obeys and waits, feeling more nervous the longer Even doesn’t reply. 

“I want that,” Even eventually says, smile creeping over his face until it’s the smile Isak’s come to be obsessed with, “more than anything.”

“Ok,” Isak whispers, shy now, “so, I’ll do it, now?”

“Ok,” Even confirms. 

Isak’s eyes tremble, fluttering shut and open and a binding song leaves his aura, his aura expanding, encompassing Even, too. Even’s eyes are closed, both of them submitting to the bond as the song plays out and their souls connect . Isak’s godly gold aura mixes with Even’s pale opal, making a unique soul bond.

“Did we just get married?” Even asks, making Isak laugh.

"Something like that."

*

Misery exists, Isak knows this.

He knows it as he sees new  _ jivas _ join everyday, terrified and broken, he knows this because humanity is becoming lonelier and colder with each passing year. 

Sometimes, he forgets it exists. 

He forgets it exists when he’s tangled in bed with his soulmate, his _literal_ soulmate, bonded by their  _ Atman _ for eternity. 

Even’s telling him a story about bees and Isak’s dreaming, in love. They’re dreaming and in love. 

“You’re not even listening,” Even tuts, but he’s smiling regardless.

Isak snuggles into the hand that’s in his hair, kissing Even’s wrist. He sees Even’s scars a lot, Even doesn’t hide them and he has no reason to do so but it always makes Isak’s heart hurt when he thinks of Even,  _ his  _ Even, in such despair. He traces his finger across the faded pink scars, Even quiet above him.

“I could take them away, if you want,” Isak offers. He only wishes to make it so that Even never has to remember what brought him to that lonely, desperate point.

“Thank you, baby,” Even half-smiles, letting Isak continue to touch him, “but I don’t want to forget who I am, not even the past, or the ugly parts. You get that, right?”

Isak kisses his wrist, eyes closed, when an idea comes to him and the excitement in his eyes shows, their auras fizzling, Even tilting his head in curiosity. 

“I know we said I’d never use power on you,” Isak starts, tucking his chin in and blinking prettily at Even, “and I won’t take them away but do you trust me? I really want to do something.”

Even contemplates Isak’s offer and it’s with his barely there nod that Isak knows they made the right decision to bond. Every day Isak sees it with Even, feels it between them, and any leftover anger he has towards his colleagues for their decision to enter him back into Samsara dissipates: if he hadn’t have been sent to earth to begin again, he wouldn’t have come back and had the chance to fall in love. 

Isak traces the scars with more meaning and this time a gentle gold follows his fingertip, changing the colour of the disjointed marks. 

“There,” Isak finishes, happy with the end result. 

“Why?” Even asks, joining Isak’s fingertips on his left wrist, tracing the now gold marks that travel downwards.

“ _ Kintsugi _ ,” Isak explains, biting his lip, “I learnt about in Nagoya. If something breaks, you repair it with gold. You don’t replace it, disguise it, or throw it away. You acknowledge its history and sometimes, you make it even more beautiful.”

Even is silent and Isak holds his breath, waiting, melting as Even leans in and nuzzles him, gentle nose rubs before he catches a kiss.

“That’s beautiful,” he eventually says, “just like you.”

Isak fizzles with pride. Isak may have history and power beyond Even’s wildest dreams but for Isak, Even holds all the cards, and always will. Isak would sacrifice being the Highest Order for him, would turn over planets for him, but all Even ever wants is Isak at home, in his arms, safe and soft. Isak has power beyond reason but around Even, he is powerless in the sweetest of ways, two souls as one.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I really enjoyed writing this, even if I complain at times as it can be draining, I’m happy with the end result. I also know this type of story could have gone on for a long, long time, there's a lot more I could have explored but I really want to focused on the certain themes. I also wanted to explain in these notes that this is the last SKAM fic I’ll be posting on AO3. I have been here before where I wanted to quit the fandom entirely but that didn't actually work for me because regardless of all the rubbish that does exist in the fandom I adore SKAM. I love the characters. I love writing and reading SKAM fanfiction. I do get hateful comments on here (I just delete/don’t publish them but they trickle in on the regular) and with the comm up and running now, I know I can be freer in a safe space that revolves around mutual respect and acceptance.
> 
> I wanted the last SKAM fic I wrote publicly to be a “proper” story, too. I’ve always enjoyed smut, reading and writing, and I know smut is looked down upon as a genre which is particularly apparent in a puritan fandom like SKAM. I've been doing a lot of research recently into fandom policing and puritan/moralising culture, as I thought perhaps it was particularly apparent in SKAM but this is now a tragic fandom norm. I guess because I’ve mostly written smut I wanted to draw the line with a good old fashioned story but that in no way means I align myself with the snobby attitude that smut isn’t a real genre or is somehow lesser than angst, or fluff, or fics without sex/explicit sex. I am very much a sex-positive, kink-positive woman and I will never be quiet about it or stand for shaming in fandom when it comes to sex, kink and sexuality. Fandom is a paradox where people are keen to be progressive and woke but with puritan moralising we are actually regressing. Fandom was a space for the freaks and geeks to come and explore ourselves but nowadays, fake woke tumblr performative activism shouts fetishisation, gender roles reinforcer, patriarchy scum. The fact that those who are guilty of doing this, yet can’t see the glaring hypocrisy worries me, in terms of basic communication skills but also deeper cognitive performances such as intelligent criticism and analysis.
> 
> I know, I really need an anti-anti blog, right? Maybe I’ll write one. I didn't know the term "anti" until recently and I fInd it fascinating on a sociological level.
> 
> So, yeah. I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve published here, on the contrary I'm satisfied and happy with the work I’ve put out here on AO3 for SKAM. I’m very grateful that people have read and enjoyed them. Thanks to those who’ve read this story, I'd love to hear your feedback.
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Major Character Death, Suicide, Violence


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